


simply put, i saw your love stream flow

by ericdire (aarobron)



Series: two of a kind beats all hands tonight [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, BUT NOT IN THE WAY U THINK, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Wedding Planning, i don't know what kind of au it is, i guess, it's just an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: Virgil takes a deep breath, knocks his knuckles against Jordan’s palm. “Stella asked me to marry her, Jordan.”“Oh,” Jordan says. He tries to convince himself that the squeezing, painful feeling in his chest is just shock. “That’s great! Congratulations, big man.”“Look, the thing is – you know how Stella is a junior doctor, yeah? A while back she applied for some volunteering opportunity in Cambodia and she’s going to be gone for three months,” Virgil says. "She wanted me to ask if you’d help plan it. It’s totally fine if you don't want to but you’re much,muchmore creative than me, and I would really really appreciate your help, Jordan. You know me, and you know Stella, so you’d be perfect for it!”“You can come stay at mine for a few weeks,” Jordan says, trying to aim for casual. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, although he doesn’t know why. Virgil is his best friend and has been since they were twelve and both hiding around the back of the bike shed with shitty rolled cigarettes. “If you want, I mean. We’ve got loads to do – I’m no seasoned wedding planner but there’s flowers and cakes and suits and tablecloths and seating plans, so. We’ve got loads.”
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Series: two of a kind beats all hands tonight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794232
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	simply put, i saw your love stream flow

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! i honestly truly do not know where this au came from, but it exists now and i'm very proud of it. working title was uwu wedding planning au, and posting this is the first time i've actually written the proper title. i'm very attached to uwu wedding planning au. 
> 
> apologies to mrs (ms?) henderson, i'm sure she's lovely in real life but she really is not in this fic.
> 
> thank you for your patience whilst waiting for this fic honestly, i know a lot of people have asked about it but i literally haven't written anything else since i started it and it has consumed my entire being for the past 8 weeks and i already feel completely and totally lost without it so please treat my baby kindly!
> 
> feedback and kudos always always always appreciated! thank you so much for reading xoxoxo

“Jordan,” Virgil breathes, voice crackling down the phone. He sounds far too excited for nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, but Jordan indulges him anyway. They’ve known each other for far too long. “Can we meet? I have some news.” 

“Have you seen the time?” Jordan huffs, but he’s only pretending to be mardy about it. He’s never been able to say no to Virgil, and he knows it. It’s dangerous, really, but Jordan trusts him enough to know that he would never take advantage of that. “I was just about to have my breakfast.” 

“Well don’t,” Virgil says. Jordan can hear him rolling his eyes in the tone of his voice and he mutters a curse, which makes Virgil laugh loudly. “Come on, you can get breakfast while we’re out. You can choose where. I’ll pay.” 

“Fine – you’ve convinced me,” Jordan says. It’s his turn to roll his eyes now, and he twists his head to look at his alarm clock. He was barely awake when Virgil called, and he hasn’t even had time to get out of bed yet. “I’ll meet you at Jenny’s. I need a shower and stuff, so I’ll see you there at ten, alright?”

“Perfect,” Virgil says. He’s beaming and it’s infectious, making the corners of Jordan’s mouth turn up, but he forces his lips back into a straight line. Just because Virgil can’t see him, that doesn’t mean he can let himself slip. “See you then. Can’t wait, sweetcheeks.”

“Shut up,” Jordan huffs, and ends the call. 

.

Virgil frowns. He looks a little bit disgusted, and he hugs his cup of coffee closer to his chest. “Why are you eating a burger and fries at half ten in the morning?” He asks, watching in morbid fascination as Jordan peels a soggy slice of tomato out of his burger.

“They’re not fries,” Jordan says through a mouthful of food, raising his eyebrows at Virgil. Alright, so maybe he’s a little bit hungover, but he’d had a good night. It wasn’t Jordan’s fault that Virgil abandoned the plans they made. He had to do something else with his time. “They’re chips.” 

“ _Still_ ,” Virgil says, stressing the syllable. Jordan slurps his milkshake through a straw and makes eye contact the entire time, smirking when Virgil’s skin goes a slightly ashen colour. “Stop being an animal and listen to me, I’ve got something to tell you.” 

“I’m hungry!” Jordan says. He offers Virgil a chip but the younger man just grimaces, so he shrugs and eats it himself. More for him, he’s not complaining. “I’ll be done in a minute. Just be patient.” 

He finishes and pushes the plate to one side, leaning back in his chair and staring expectantly at Virgil. He still looks a bit put out, staring between Jordan’s face and his plate in disgusted wonder. Jordan just smiles politely, motioning for Virgil to get on with it.

“So, you know what day it was yesterday,” Virgil says, snapping out of it and smiling kindly at Jordan, who shrugs. It feels a little bit like leading a lamb to the slaughter, so Jordan straightens up. He has a feeling that he’s going to have to be braced for this. “It was leap day, Jordan. And you know what kind of traditions come with leap day.” 

“I do not recognise any of your crazy traditions,” Jordan says solemnly, reaching across the table to place his hand on top of Virgil’s. It’s a long running joke, really – he and Virgil both have… difficult family backgrounds to say the least, so every holiday or festival day, Virgil makes up some stupid event. Most of them have stuck, but some (like leap day) are far too obscure to even warrant the thought. 

“It’s not mine, you idiot,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes. He looks fond though, cheeks pink as he smiles at Jordan. He takes a deep breath, knocks his knuckles against Jordan’s palm. “It’s worldwide tradition for women to ask men to marry them. And – well – Stella asked. She asked me to marry her, Jordan.”

“Oh,” Jordan says. He tries to convince himself that the squeezing, painful feeling in his chest is just shock. He offers Virgil a beaming smile. “Oh! That’s great! Congratulations, big man.” 

“You don’t even know if I said yes yet,” Virgil reminds him, but it’s teasing and he’s grinning. He’s absolutely glowing, and Jordan doesn’t understand how he didn’t notice it straight away. The happiness is just pouring off of him. 

“Did you say yes?” Jordan asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. He already knows the answer, obviously.

“Of course I did!” Virgil says, kicking at Jordan’s shin. He laughs, head thrown back and the long line of his throat bare, and it makes Jordan _want_. He looks at the pool of grease on his plate to try and force the feeling away. “Right, there’s more but it’s pretty big so I’ll order us a coffee first. Or do you want tea? No, you look like you need a coffee.”

“Wait,” Jordan says, catching Virgil’s wrist before he can gesture for the waitress. He hesitates for a moment when Virgil looks at him expectantly, and then sighs. “What’s the big thing? Is she… is Stella pregnant, Virgil? Is that why she asked you to marry her?” 

“No! God, no,” Virgil breathes. He laughs in shock, and then gets over it, laughing properly. He’s grinning when he finishes, and the back of Jordan’s neck heats up. “Can you imagine me as a father? After the absolute state my own left me in? No, I think I’ll stay away from kids, thanks. Can’t imagine me doing any good as a dad, can you?” 

“Couldn’t imagine you getting married either, to be honest,” Jordan admits quietly, but he’s smiling regardless. He doesn’t want to project his own issues onto Virgil. God knows they’ve both got enough to deal with on their own. “But as long as you’re happy.”

“I am happy,” Virgil says. His voice is firm but not unkind, and he reaches out to curl his fingers around Jordan’s wrist with a smile. “I know you don’t believe in love or whatever, but just because you’re fine with being a spinster for the rest of our lives doesn’t mean the rest of us are.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jordan says. He flushes bright red from his throat to the tips of his ears and hangs his head when Virgil laughs gently.

“I know you didn’t, Jord,” he says, squeezing Jordan’s wrist before letting go for good. He gestures to the waitress again and this time Jordan doesn’t stop him, just picks at his nails while the younger man orders two coffees. “Look, the thing is – you know how Stella is a junior doctor, yeah? A while back she applied for some volunteering opportunity in Cambodia and she’s going to be gone for three months, so we want to set the wedding for pretty much as soon as she gets back.” 

“So she’s leaving you to plan the entire thing?” Jordan asks, raising his eyebrows. He widens his eyes and blows out a breath comically just because he knows that Virgil will be mock outraged, and laughs when he gets a light punch to the chest. “Stella Lovett is a much braver person than I am, and I applaud her.”

“I mean, I don’t think I’m _that_ bad. But you do, apparently, and so does she, so ––” He cuts himself off and smiles hopefully at Jordan, blinking like he’s trying to make himself look innocent. It’s not working. “She wanted me to ask if you’d help plan it. It’s totally fine if you think you wouldn’t be any good at it, or if you’re too busy, or even if you just don’t want to because you don’t need an excuse, but you’re much, _much_ more creative than me, and I would really really appreciate your help, Jordan. You know me, and you know Stella, so you’d be perfect for it!” 

“You done?” Jordan asks, patiently waiting for Virgil to stop rambling. The younger man is a little bit out of breath, looking panicky, but he just nods slowly. “Good, then shut up and let me get a word in edgeways. Yes, I will help you plan your wedding, Virgil van Dijk. It would be an honour.” 

“Oh, thank you, Jord,” Virgil breathes. He looks so grateful, so pleased, that Jordan doesn’t understand how the split second of a rejection ever passed through his mind. He could never, ever turn Virgil down – not when his eyes are glittering like that. “I know you think marriage is a con to financially blackmail people to get wet by the religion-backed Conservative government taxes or whatever, so thank you for putting that aside for me.”

“Um, I’ve never said that,” Jordan says, can’t stop the frown from spreading across his face. Alright, it does sound like something he’d say, but that’s only because he knows far too many people who only got married because the financial situation was better. It just shouldn’t _work_ like that. It’s all a sham, love and everything that comes with it. He’s seen it fail first hand far too many times. “ _Fine_ , if I did, I was probably drunk. But – back to the subject – you’re the one getting married, not me. And if you want to fall victim to the religion-backed Tory government, then who am I to stop you?” 

“That’s the spirit,” Virgil says, and his beaming smile is brighter than the sun. He seems genuinely excited about the fact that Jordan has agreed to help him. “Stella leaves late Sunday night, so we can start Monday after work?” 

“You can come stay at mine for a few weeks,” Jordan says, trying to aim for casual. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, although he doesn’t know why. Virgil is his best friend and has been since they were twelve and both hiding around the back of the bike shed with shitty rolled cigarettes. Virgil was the new kid, and it felt good for Jordan to take him under his wing. He liked being the reason Virgil started to fit in with everyone else. “If you want, I mean. We’ve got loads to do – I’m no seasoned wedding planner but there’s flowers and cakes and suits and tablecloths and seating plans, so. We’ve got loads.”

“Yeah,” Virgil says, raising his eyebrow after Jordan’s little outburst. He leans back in his seat and knocks his ankle pleasantly against Jordan’s. “Yeah, go on then. I suppose you’re right.” 

Jordan blows out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and smiles.

.

“I don’t even know what to put,” Virgil says, frowning down at his phone. He’s been staring at the same screen for the past few minutes, thumbs poised over it like he’s about to type, but then he never does. It’s getting a bit creepy, to be honest. “What am I supposed to Google?”

“Wedding planning for dummies,” Jordan says absently, doodling around the sides of his canvas. He’s already written _**to do**_ in big fancy letters while he was waiting for Virgil, and he’s still got time to kill. He flinches away from the kick Virgil aims at his ribs and cackles. “I don’t know, just – something like, list for planning a wedding. I’m sure you’re not the only person that’s had to look it up. There’s a lot of small details that you can forget.” 

“Alright,” Virgil says, and finally starts typing. He hums, considering, then nudges Jordan again with his foot like he’s trying to get his attention. What he doesn’t know is that Jordan is always paying attention to him. “Okay so, dress, bridesmaids, all that stuff – Stel is taking care of that. Obviously, you’re going to be my best man, so…” 

“I am?” Jordan asks, looking up in surprise.

“Yeah, of course you are,” Virgil says. His cheeks have tinged a sweet shade of pink and he smiles bashfully, closing his hand around Jordan’s shoulder. The moment is almost awkwardly touching. Jordan doesn’t know whether he loves it or hates it. “You’re my best mate, Jord. Of course you’re going to be my best man.” 

“Thank you,” Jordan says softly, and can’t quite bring himself to look away from Virgil’s gaze. It feels – significant. It’s weird, and he can’t put his finger on why. 

“There are conditions, though,” Virgil says, breaking the weird little moment. He retracts his arm and the spot where his hand was is burning, skin tingling like all of the nerve endings that sit under the skin are on fire. If he thinks about it too hard, it’s painful. “You’re only allowed to be the best man if you don’t go on about how awful the concept of marriage is in your speech. Stella’s orders, not mine.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Jordan says with a smile on his face. Virgil grins back, eyes crinkling sweetly at the corners. “For Stella, of course. Not for you.” 

“Oh, that’s only to be expected,” Virgil says. He gestures to Jordan’s iPad, where the to do list is still sitting proudly on the screen. It’s his work iPad to be honest and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be using it for this, but he’s also pretty sure the company doesn’t monitor him, so. It’s a risk he’s willing to take (for Virgil). “That looks good. That lettering.”

“Thanks,” Jordan says. He hates the way he flushes, all pleased and placated like a housewife who’s gotten a once in a blue moon compliment from her husband. He isn’t reliant on other people to make him feel good, and he never has been – but it’s something completely different coming from Virgil. “Come on then, what’s on the list? I’ll write it down and print it out so we can stick it on the wall, and then we’ll know where we’re at.” 

“Right, listen carefully: photographer, band, catering, flowers… Cars, do you think we need cars?” Virgil asks, index finger still poised in mid air as he looks at Jordan. He looks stressed already. It’s quite funny.

“Maybe just from the registry office to the cafe?” Jordan suggests, scribbling a note to check the distance between the two places. It can’t be that far, but the happy couple can’t walk on their wedding day. Jordan hates the entire concept, but even he knows that. “Who’s going to be at the registry?” 

“Me and Stel – my mum, and Stella’s parents. And – you. I’m not getting married without you there,” Virgil says, glancing up from his phone briefly. He smiles when his gaze meets Jordan’s. “Wouldn’t feel right, no matter how much you protest.” 

“Too many for just the one car,” Jordan says, but jots it down anyway. Virgil hums appreciatively over the fact it has its own little subsection, like he didn’t think of that, and Jordan understands why he’s been asked now. “Although I suppose you could walk back to the cafe.” 

“Fuck off!” Virgil says, pouting slightly. He looks up properly this time, just so he can aim a cutting glare at Jordan. It doesn’t affect the older man, though. He’s seen it too many times, and it started to get old after the first two years of their friendship. “It’s _my_ wedding day. The world is supposed to revolve around me.” 

“Okay, Bridezilla,” Jordan says, huffing out a laugh. “We’ll figure something out, we’ve still got time.” 

“Knew there was a reason we hired you,” Virgil mutters. He goes back to scrolling through his phone and doesn’t acknowledge the disbelieving stare Jordan is giving him – not until he feels the gaze and looks up with raised eyebrows. 

“You didn’t hire me, because you’re not paying me!” Jordan snaps, giving the back of Virgil’s leg a swift smack. To be honest, he’s not really that bothered about it – he’d do just about anything for Virgil – but it doesn’t hurt to play. Virgil needs to be kept in his place. “In fact, I’m out of pocket, because you’re living in my house and eating my food!”

“Shut up, you love it – and you need the company,” Virgil says. He looks far too smug and runs his fingers through the back of Jordan’s hair, tugging on the ends of the strands harshly. He’s fucking annoying, to be honest (almost like a brother, but Jordan finds that weird when he thinks about it for too long), but he doesn’t regret asking him to stay. “You spend ninety-nine percent of your life holed up in this cramped little shithole of a flat. You need somebody to keep you sane.” 

“You’re driving me _in_ sane,” Jordan mutters, but doesn’t complain any further.

Anything else would just be a lie, and Virgil has always been able to see right through him. 

.

“Hey,” Virgil says, beaming as Jordan pushes through the door and dumps his bag on the counter. He lifts himself onto a bar stool and puts his head in his hands, only reacting to the feel of Virgil’s hand in his hair. “That bad, hm?” 

“I always get lumped with the worst clients,” Jordan mutters, lifting his head to stare pathetically at Virgil. He’s hoping that he gets enough sympathy for a fancy coffee and a free meal, to be honest. “I asked my boss about it and apparently it’s because I’m the most likeable.” 

“They really don’t know you in that office, do they?” Virgil snorts, but he scratches his nails against Jordan’s scalp anyway. He removes his hand and Jordan shudders, but forces himself to sit up straight. He pushes his bottom lip out and blinks, and Virgil sighs. “Fine, I will make you dinner. It’s homework club tonight anyway, so we’re not closing till eight. What do you want? Tea, coffee – something stronger?” 

“A beer, please,” Jordan says. He finally smiles and Virgil rolls his eyes, but he does smile slightly. He looks fond, and in turn, Jordan sticks his tongue out. It’s probably a bit of a defense mechanism, acting like a kid, but he can’t handle things when they get too real. “And whatever you feel like cooking. I’m not fussy.” 

“Alright,” Virgil murmurs, already turning around to the fridge behind him. He fusses about finding Jordan’s favourite beer and slides it across the counter, grinning when Jordan takes a sip and hums happily. “I’ll be back soon. The boys are having a day off, so if someone comes in, jump behind the counter, will you? If you still remember how to use the till, that is.” 

“‘Course I do,” Jordan says, gently punching Virgil’s arm (although it’s more of a tap). When Virgil opened this place, when he couldn’t afford to pay any staff, Jordan was here day and night helping decorate and wait on tables. He even managed to convince a few of his mates to commission pieces to go on the walls, and painted the sign outside. Virgil refused to change it to a proper one, even when he made enough money to be able to afford it. “I’ll be fine, Virg. I’m not that much of a pen pusher.” 

“If you say so,” Virgil says, mouth pressed into a thin smile. His eyes sparkle, just for a second, and then he disappears into the kitchen. It feels like he takes Jordan’s breath with him. 

He decides to use the time to be productive. Pulls his iPad out of the bag and flicks through his messages with Stella for a minute, just so he knows what he’s got to do. They’ve been chatting most of the day, while she sets up somewhere to live and the finer details of her job, about the wedding and what she wants. To be honest, she’s given him much more free rein than he expected, but it’s alright. He can live with that. He’s a creative person, for christ’s sake.

He sketches the outline of Virgil’s name and then traces the letters carefully, in big, blocky lines. That’s the way Virgil should always be – bold and strong, unmissable. He brushes Stella’s name below, in delicate, beautiful cursive.

And thinks about how much they don’t fit together.

“That’s good,” Virgil says, nodding at the iPad and placing the plate on the counter next to Jordan’s elbow. He leans on the counter to get a proper look and Jordan spins the iPad round so he’s not looking at it upside down. “Is it for the invitations?”

“I dunno, I was just practising,” Jordan shrugs, self conscious as always. He locks his iPad and brings it back towards him, pulling his plate across instead. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, because it makes him feel a little bit weird. His thoughts are just – intrusive. He doesn’t know how to make them stop. “What did you make?” 

“It’s duck breast with umeboshi sauce and steamed bok choi,” Virgil says, pointing at everything as he speaks. It all just goes straight over Jordan’s head so he smiles, watches the small frown of concentration that’s furrowing a line in between Virgil’s eyebrows. He loves listening to Virgil speak about food. He loves the way his face lights up and he cares so much. “I know, I know, you think it’s pretentious, but you’ll like it. Trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” Jordan says quietly. It’s distant though, because he’s picked up his fork and is pushing the green stuff on his plate around – _bok choi_ , Virgil’s voice in his head tells him in a disapproving voice – but he spears a piece of duck and pops it into his mouth. He stifles back a groan. “Okay, that’s good. Has anyone ever told you how good you are at cooking? You should make a career out of it. You’d be dead good.” 

“Yeah, I might consider that,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes. He picks up a piece of bok choi and holds it up to Jordan’s mouth, raising his eyebrows expectantly. He knows how picky Jordan is when it comes to vegetables, and he always forces him into trying new things. “Eat it, Jordan. It’s fine.” 

“Better not be like that time you made me try kale,” Jordan grumbles, but he opens his mouth anyway. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten, but it’s not exactly his cup of tea. He thinks he could start to like it for Virgil. “Alright, it’s not bad. I’ll give you that one.”

“See? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be eating chicken nuggets and fries for every meal,” Virgil says. He sounds far too smug and his smirk is exactly the same, so it’s very, very easy to ignore him. Jordan looks down at his iPad, opening the messages he exchanged with Stella earlier.

“Have you thought any more about a colour scheme? If you pick a main shade we can work around it,” Jordan says, changing the subject completely. He flicks through it until he finds the picture he sent to Stella, the one with little brushes of different colours on. “She narrowed it down to royal purple, azure, emerald green and… Thulian.” 

“Fucking hell,” Virgil breathes, frowning as he scans all the colours. He looks like he’s way out of his depth. “Do you just – know all these names off by heart?” 

“Some of them,” Jordan says, smiling at the bewildered look on Virgil’s face. The younger man notices and flushes from the tops of the ears down, stealing a slice of duck off Jordan’s plate. “Come on, which one do you like? It’ll be for the flowers, table runners – just the accents, stuff like that.” 

“Um,” Virgil says. He seems a little bit dumbfounded, and he stares at the screen like he’s trying to get it to choose for him. When it doesn’t, he sighs and closes his eyes. “Royal purple.” 

“Perfect,” Jordan says, offering a beaming smile to Virgil. He opens his messages again and types out a quick sentence to Stella to let her know, adding on a smiley emoji just for good measure. “That’s your soon-to-be wife settled – for today at least, anyway.” 

He glances up to see something strange pass over Virgil’s face, but then as soon as it’s there, it disappears. “Great,” Virgil says. He smiles but it’s unconvincing, and Jordan curls his fingers around his wrist questioningly. The curve of his mouth turns brighter, steadier, so Jordan smooths the pad of his thumb over his pulse point, and that’s it. The conversation is over. “I’m going to close up soon, and then we can go home.”

.

“You’re going to be late,” Jordan says, pushing Virgil’s hip with his foot. He raises his eyebrows when Virgil buries himself further under the duvet and kicks him again, careful not to spill the tea in his hand. “Get up, shithead. Your loyal customers need you to open up on time.” 

“I’m not a shithead,” Virgil mutters, practically smothering his own head with his pillow. “Leave me ‘lone.” 

“Yes, you are. And no, I won’t,” Jordan says. He kicks at Virgil again, repeatedly pushing his thigh until he gets annoyed enough to throw the duvet off and lift his head. He glares at Jordan with the effect of a grumpy five year old child, red creases in his cheeks from the sheets and strands of hair sticking out everywhere. “Come on, get up. I made you scrambled eggs, and you’re not allowed to complain about them not being good enough. You’ve got forty five minutes until Ki-jana gets to the cafe, so you better be there before him.” 

“Fine – but that better be for me,” Virgil says, eyeing Jordan’s mug of tea. He nods, take one last sip and then hands it over when Virgil sits up. There’s a reason he picked the biggest mug out of the cupboard and put two sugars in it instead of his one (and instead of Virgil’s four). “Why did I take on an apprentice, Jord?” 

“Because you’re nice. Nicer than me, anyway, but that isn’t hard,” Jordan says, shrugging Virgil off when he tries to reassure him. He holds a hand out and grins when Virgil takes it, pulling him off the bed and out of the spare room, into the little kitchen. “Come on. Scrambled eggs, they’ll get cold.” 

“I like my scrambled eggs cold,” Virgil mutters, but he lets himself be pushed into a dining chair anyway. He nods approvingly when Jordan puts a plate in front of him and tucks in straight away. “By the time I’m done cooking, my food is usually cold anyway.”

“And that’s why I’m cooking for you,” Jordan says. He can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face but he looks down at his own plate and cuts the corner off his toast, shoving it into his mouth before Virgil can notice. “Is it alright?”

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Virgil says. He sounds pleasantly surprised and carries on eating, glancing up at Jordan every other second like he can’t tear his gaze away. The lines around his eyes are crinkled, so Jordan knows he’d be grinning if he didn’t have a mouth full of food. “Considering you cooked it, anyway.” 

“Dickhead,” Jordan says, rolling his eyes. He snatches Virgil’s mug up and takes a long sip of the tea, wincing when he realises that Virgil has snuck another sugar in there without him noticing. Honestly, he doesn’t know how anyone could drink this shit. He’s got a sweet tooth as much as the next person, but not for fucking tea. “I give you a place to live and let you have a few meals without having to cook because I know that it’s what you do all day at work, and you’re still not grateful.”

“It’s not living – it’s barely surviving,” Virgil mutters, stealing the mug back off of Jordan. He rests his foot on the side of Jordan’s chair, half on his thigh, and just grins when the older man flicks his ankle. “Your flat is tiny and the bed you’ve shoved me in is awful. You’ve not even got any curtains in the spare room, Jordan.”

“I always meant to sort that out but I never got round to it,” Jordan says, flushing bright red. It’s true – too many things got in the way and then it just seemed pointless, so he hasn’t bothered. “Nobody ever stays, so. I think you might be the first person.” 

“You’ve lived here for seven years,” Virgil says. The corners of his mouth are quirked up in a kind smile.

“Yes, I have. Ten out of ten for observation,” Jordan says. He turns somehow an even darker shade of red and pushes his chair away from the table, picking his plate up just for something to do with his hands. 

“And I’m the first person to stay in the spare room?” Virgil asks. He’s vibrating with the fact he’s holding back laughter. Jordan doesn’t have to look at him to know. “Why don’t you just move? I know that this was just your little starter flat or whatever, but you earn more than enough now to move somewhere better. Maybe you could put a deposit down on a little house, settle down properly.” 

“I’m settled here,” Jordan says, shrugging and turning around. He crosses his arms over his chest and rests his back against the counter, staring at Virgil challengingly. “It’s close to everything, so.” 

“It’s about three miles away from your office, Jordan,” Virgil says. He frowns, scrutinising Jordan’s face like he doesn’t know what’s so special about the place. “It’s barely standing. Don’t you worry that it’s going to fall down around your ears?” 

“I like it, okay?” Jordan sighs, pressing a hand to his face. He digs the heel of his hand into his forehead because this conversation is giving him a headache, and then when he looks up again, he has to roll his eyes at the dopey look on Virgil’s face. It’s far too soft for what the topic warrants – despite what he’s about to say next. “Look, the reason I like it is because it’s close to The Collective. It might be small and a bit shitty, but I feel at home. And I always know that you’re just around the corner.”

Virgil stays silent for one beat and then another, and then he’s standing up, padding across the kitchen so he can wrap Jordan up in a big hug. “Oh, that’s so cute,” he says, quiet and right by Jordan’s ear. He sounds like he’s beaming with happiness. “I knew you loved me really!” 

“Shut up,” Jordan laughs, short and throaty. He puts his hands on Virgil’s chest and shoves him away, trying not to think about how much the contact makes his palms tingle. “Go get in the shower, you massive lump. You absolutely stink.” 

He tries not to watch the muscles of Virgil’s back shifting under his bare skin as he walks away, and fails. 

.

“What do you want?” Jordan asks, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He glances back into the meeting room and sees at least three pairs of eyes look away like they’ve been caught, and huffs.

“Shit, sorry, you’re in that meeting aren’t you?” Virgil hisses, lowering his voice like Jordan would be stupid enough to put him on speaker while sat with all these old suited and booted middle aged men. “Sorry, I forgot. I’ll let you get back to it, J. Sorry!”

“Nah, you’re alright,” Jordan says quickly, trying to get the words in before Virgil can hang up. He moves away from the glass walls so he can’t be seen and leans back against the brick, letting himself smile at the sound of Virgil’s breathing. “What’s up?” 

“I was thinking, that’s all,” Virgil says. Jordan can hear Gini in the background, muttering something in Dutch, and he can hear Virgil’s reply too. The sound of glasses clinking, the buttons on the coffee machine being pressed. It all just feels like home. “We need Pinterest boards, don’t you think?”

“No. No we don’t, because we need something _better_ ,” Jordan says, tapping the tips of his fingers against his thigh. He’s got a plan forming in his head already. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll sort something.” 

“What are you up to, hm?” Virgil asks. The tone of his voice is light and teasing, but then he cuts himself off, going more hushed when he speaks next. “Right, I’ve got to go. The mum’s club has just come in, and you know what they’re like if they don’t get their merlot on tap. I’ll see you when I get home, alright? Love you.” 

He’s gone before Jordan has the chance to reply, but to be honest, he’s glad. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say back to that – he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say it and not mean it.

.

“What’s this?” Virgil says, raising his eyebrows as he watches Jordan wrestle himself and everything he’s carrying through the front door. He doesn’t stand up and help though, the lazy fucker. “What have you brought home now? Are you ever going to stop filling your flat with shit?” 

“It’s your Pinterest board!” Jordan says, cringing at how ridiculously cheery he sounds. He knows that it’s not like him at all, but maybe that’s just what he’s like when he’s got Virgil around all the time. He wouldn’t know. It’s the first time he’s experienced it. “Well, not quite, but I promise that it’s better. Margaret in admin ordered a shitload of foam board last month and we’re just kind of swimming in it now. Like, she was supposed to order one hundred A3 sheets but she ordered one thousand instead, and we only ever use it for the old fashioned clients – everyone else is happy with a digital mood board – so I thought we could set up a little workstation and get some physical ideas up.”

“That’s – very considerate, actually,” Virgil says, a tiny smile gracing his face. He finally gets up and helps Jordan pass the foam board through the door and carefully places it down on the dining table, staring down at it in wonder before looking back up. “Thank you, J.” 

“It’s not a problem,” Jordan says, flushing slightly. He shrugs and gestures to the emptiest corner of the living room, just to try and distract from the burning of his cheeks. “We can set it up here, pin them to the wall or something. And we can do one for each thing, like one for your colour scheme, one for Stella’s flowers, invitations and place names and all the little stationery bits – even fonts and that. It might be easier for you to see it all right in front of your eyes instead of on a screen, you know?” 

Virgil doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Jordan, considering and with a secretive little smile on his face. The weight of his gaze makes the older man flush even _more_ , and he wipes a hand across his nose, avoiding Virgil’s eyes. 

“ _What_?” He asks, stressing the word. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Nothing! Nothing bad, I swear,” Virgil says. That secretive little smile is still on his face and the high points of his cheek bones are slightly pink, but it doesn’t seem like it bothers him. “It’s just that – I’ve never seen you like this before. In work mode, I mean, all brilliant and full of ideas. I can see why you’re so good at it, and I’m proud of you.”

Jordan rolls his eyes and turns away before his face gives away something he doesn’t want Virgil to know. “What’s for dinner?” He asks instead of replying, but thankfully, it works. Virgil goes along with it just like Jordan knew he would, because you can never come between that man and his food.

.

Jordan times his day perfectly. He finishes his project and presents it to his client roughly three hours before he has to clock out. She’s happy with it, mostly - she’s been coming to Jordan for a long time and absolutely adores his work - but wants a few minor adjustments. Those take him another hour and a half, and then by the time his client has officially signed off on it and they’ve had a brief catch up (she laughs when he tells her he’s planning a wedding), there’s only forty five minutes of the working day left. That’s not enough time for his boss to throw him another project, which means he’s got a whole weekend to himself for once.

Virgil texts him at lunchtime, too. Tells him to come in after work for dinner and a chat, because they’re always open later on Fridays and Virgil never knows what time he’ll be finished. It’s open mic night, and Jordan knows that he’ll end up being roped into help. Even with Gini on the till and serving, and Virgil and Ki-jana in the kitchen, they’re still short staffed. The place will be rammed by seven.

“Hello, light of my life,” Virgil grins, sliding an iced tea across the counter for Jordan. He looks far too happy, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “How was your day? What time did you finish with Cathy?”

“It was great. We got finished at seventeen minutes past four,” Jordan says proudly, smiling when Virgil nods approvingly. He’d already known about Jordan’s plan, of course. He told him last night when he mentioned his intentions to get into the city and get a few samples of things for the wedding. “Dragged it out as long as I could, of course.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t expect any different from you,” Virgil says. He rests his elbows on the counter so he’s leaning across to Jordan, and doesn’t even glance up when the bell above the door goes and a group of students walks in. Jordan’s just grateful that Gini is on shift. Someone in this cafe has to work. “Done chilli con carne for today. Do you want garlic bread?”

“Only if it’s cheesy," Jordan says, stifling a yawn. He rests his chin on his hands and blinks sleepily at Virgil, keening towards him when he passes a warm hand through his hair. He loves his job and he loves his long term clients, but when they won't even consider letting anyone else help him - it's exhausting. 

"You'd better wake up before the rush of hipsters come in," Virgil says, pulling his hand out of Jordan's hair. He only goes as far as to tap his cheek gently in a mock slap, and Jordan grumbles miserably. "The chilli should sort you out, I'll go plate up for you."

He disappears out the back and Jordan watches him go, smiling instinctively when he starts shouting something in Dutch at Ki-jana. Gini slides across the length of the counter space slowly, like he's got intentions but doesn't quite know how to approach them. Jordan raises an eyebrow, nodding when Gini offers to refill his drink.

“What’s up with him?” Jordan asks, nodding through to the back. Gini smiles over his shoulder but then goes back to sorting the iced tea, throwing in an extra shot of peach and winking at Jordan when he hands it over. "He's happy. Like, really happy. It's weird - I don't think I've ever seen him like this."

“He's Facetiming Stella later,” Gini says, tapping the tips of his fingers against the counter. He follows Jordan’s line of sight to where they can see half of Virgil’s body, standing out against the steel silver of the kitchen. He’s grinning, flushed from the heat of the ovens, and then laughs at something Ki-jana says. Jordan curls his fingers into fists, because it _frustrates_ him when he thinks about how beautiful Virgil is even without trying. Every time he thinks he’s over it, it hits him in the chest like a ten tonne weight. He never knows what to do with the feelings. “They haven’t spoken properly for ages, apparently. The job’s kept her really busy.”

“That’s great,” Jordan says. His words say that and he hopes his face does too, but his stomach feels heavy. It’s only been a week, roundabout, but that’s one hundred and sixty eight hours that have just been him and Virgil. All that time, those minutes and those seconds and everything in between – they’ve sent his head spinning, and he’s not sure how to stop it. “That’s really great. It’ll be good for him, you know? I can tell he misses her.” 

“Yeah, it is great,” Gini says, but it’s somewhat distant. He’s got his chin in his fingers and he’s looking at Jordan quizzically, furrow between his eyebrows and lips pursed slightly. “I never thought him and Stella were right for each other. At first, I mean – now I can see it. But when they first got together, I just didn’t get it. They’re both far too relaxed, and I didn’t know if it would be any good for Virgil.”

“Why?” Jordan asks. The look on his face must take Gini aback because he shrugs and holds a hand up in front of himself, placating. Jordan doesn’t feel very placated. “He’s laid back, isn’t he? I’ve always thought that it was the best thing about him, and nobody should change that. He needs another laid back person just so he can keep that freedom, and Stella is perfect. They make a beautiful couple too.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Gini says, nodding absently. He glances at Virgil, who is now concentrating ridiculously hard on making a bowl of chilli (Jordan’s, he assumes) look presentable, and then back at Jordan. “But I always thought he needed someone more uptight. Someone who can balance out the lazy, impulsive parts of him. Someone who can get him to do the stuff he doesn’t want to do, for example. I don’t know. You know him better than me.” 

Jordan shrugs, wiping a hand across the back of his nose as he considers Gini’s words. “I don’t know, I don’t think he likes uptight,” he admits quietly, gaze dancing over to Virgil. He smiles at the tea towel he’s got thrown over his shoulder, how much it all suits him. He’s so glad he gets to see it firsthand. “He always calls me uptight – moans about me getting up at six and when I make him pick up his wet towels off the bathroom floor. And I have to plan everything, to the tiniest detail, and it just drives him crazy. I think uptight would stifle him, so Stella must be what he needs.” 

“He hasn’t been late opening once this week,” Gini points out. If Jordan didn’t know any better, he’d say the tone of his voice was hopeful. “Usually, he’s late at least three days a week. But he’s living with you, and he has been on time to the second. I’m just glad I don’t have to stand outside in the rain.” 

“Are _you_ saying I’m uptight now?” Jordan asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. Gini goes to reply, but before he can speak, Virgil is coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of chilli con carne in one hand and a plate of garlic bread in the other.

“You are uptight,” he says, placing the bowl carefully in front of Jordan and putting cutlery next to it. He steals a slice of garlic bread before he puts it down and grins, teeth bared, like he’s challenging Jordan to say something. “What were you talking about?” 

“Nothing important,” Gini says quickly, glancing at Jordan. The look he’s giving him is weird and it’s even weirder that he doesn’t tell Virgil what they’re talking about. It’s not like it’s anything _bad_. 

“Alright then, freaks,” Virgil says, taking a bite out of the garlic bread. He frowns at both of them and then looks at the clock, and just like that, the conversation has moved on. Jordan can practically see how grateful Gini is that he doesn’t have to explain himself. “Stella’s calling at six, so you’ve got me for half an hour, and then – J, you’re gonna have to jump behind the counter, because Joel doesn’t start until seven.” 

“Are you paying me?” Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s trying not to smile but it’s a struggle, and he knows that Virgil can tell. He’s definitely smirking about it.

“Of course not,” Virgil says, sending him a beaming smile. He steals the fork out of his hand and takes a bite of the chilli, nodding to himself as he tastes it. Ignores the look that Jordan is giving him and mutters something about how good it is, and then smiles again. “Do I ever pay you?” 

“No, but there’s a first time for everything,” Jordan grumbles. He snatches the fork back and curls a protective arm around the bowl, pulling it towards his chest. He’s hungry; he didn’t have time for lunch and all he’s lived on all day is cornflakes and coffee, so he’s not letting anyone get between him and his dinner. Especially when he’s being forced to work another six hour shift.

Virgil just winks – badly, though, because he’s not very good at it. He never quite learnt, no matter how many times Jordan tried to teach him when they were kids. The conversation they slip into is comfortable, about nothing important, really, but it’s the kind of conversation he loves to have with Virgil. About everything and nothing, the menial shit, like the different (secret) spices that go into Virgil’s special chilli.

“Right, Stella will be calling in five minutes. Do I look alright? Do I need to sort my hair out?” Virgil asks, smoothing a hand over his hair. He glares when Gini just smirks and sticks his middle finger up when Jordan snickers, but really, Jordan always thinks he looks gorgeous. He’s not going to tell Virgil that, though. “Who needs enemies when I’ve got friends like you?”

Jordan tuts, sliding off the stool and rounding the counter so he can grab the apron that’s got his name embroidered on the pocket. He doesn’t use it much (thankfully, because food service isn’t exactly his preferred career), but he does know that Virgil doesn’t let anyone else touch it. “You look gorgeous, sunshine,” he says sarcastically. He turns round and glances over his shoulder. “If you want me to work, can you at least tie this?”

“Fine,” Virgil grumbles, taking both ends of the apron to tie it. He’s so careful when he loops the string and then pulls it tighter, asking Jordan if it’s okay. Before he has the chance to say yes though, Virgil’s phone is ringing and he pulls the strings ridiculously tight without realising he’s done it. “Stella, hey! No, I’m not busy. Of course I’m not - I’ve been waiting for your call all day.”

“Fucking hell,” Jordan mutters. He turns around and the apron falls loosely by his sides, and he stares at Gini helplessly. Gini steps up - although not without a huff off laughter - and places a hand on Jordan’s shoulder, spinning him round to tie the apron. “I think he’s just broken my ribs.”

“He’s young and in love!” Gini says, tying a tight knot into the apron. He pats Jordan’s back when he’s done and smiles when he turns around. They both watch Virgil disappear into the back room, grinning at the phone he’s holding in front of his face. “Cut him some slack, Hendo.”

"He won't be cutting me any slack when he's short staffed because I've had to go to A&E with broken bones," Jordan grumbles. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his hip against the counter, looking out across the cafe. It's been a long time since he's helped out like this. He's almost missed it. "Needs to start treating his staff right."

Gini tuts, but it's good natured and he doesn't say anything else. He's been around Jordan and Virgil far too many times, knows what their relationship is like, how they banter. It's been that way for the past thirteen years, and it's not going to change now.

"...No, things are really good here, Stel," Virgil says, coming back into the front of the cafe. He sticks his tongue out at Jordan when he spots him behind the counter and lifts himself onto a bar stool, gesturing for a coffee. "We all miss you, obviously. Me especially, because the extra staff I've drafted in are _not_ desirable. I'm not naming any names, but the death of service with a smile is all Jordan Henderson's fault."

"Fuck off," Jordan says, but he can't stop the smile that's spreading across his face. Virgil just frowns and motions in a _see what I mean_ kind of gesture. "Hi, Stella. How's Cambodia?"

"Jordan!" Stella says. Her voice is so familiar that he relaxes instantly, and it's even better when Virgil hands his phone over. She's glowing, skin bronzed and hair curled around her face beautifully. He didn't quite realise how much he misses her until now. "It's really, really great, thanks. It's hot and the people are lovely and everyone is treating me with such respect. I haven't actually cooked for myself yet, because all the villagers keep inviting me for dinner. Enough about me, though - how is life living with bridezilla?"

"Shut up," Virgil says quickly, snatching his phone back out of Jordan's hands. He angles it so that both of them are in the frame though, frowning at Jordan almost pathetically. "Bridezilla? Is that what you call me?"

"No…?" Jordan says, blinking to try and make himself seem innocent. Judging by the disbelieving look on Virgil's face, it doesn't work.

"Is that why you won't let me see your messages with my own fiance?" Virgil asks, entire body turned towards Jordan. Jordan smirks and nods, because if he's not going to get out of it, he can at least tease Virgil with it. "If you think I'm that bad, you ought to try living with someone like you! I feel like all you do is follow me around the flat putting coasters down before I'm allowed to place my tea on a table. I'm sick of the sight of your coasters, to be honest, Jordan."

"Well if you weren't such a _slob_ , you wouldn't have to worry about it," Jordan mutters, reaching out to punch Virgil's arm gently. Virgil dramatically flinches away with a gasp, a wounded look on his face that's just comical. "You're living in my home, you should follow my rules! You've known me long enough to know what I'm like!" 

"While I'm sure that there is someone out there that's willing to put up with you and your insanity," Virgil says solemnly, placing a careful hand on Jordan's like he's offering his condolences. "That person is not-"

"Do not say anything else," Jordan says, pointing a threatening finger at Virgil. He glances at the screen and feels a little bit guilty when he sees the awkward smile on her face. She looks like she thinks she doesn't belong, and Jordan bites his lip. He doesn't play about when he punches Virgil's arm this time. "Pay attention to your fiance, idiot. This is why nobody likes you."

Virgil tries to protest, but Jordan just disappears to the other end of the counter. This way, Virgil has to pay attention to Stella, and he feels less - _weird_ about it all.

What he can't explain is the way his heart is pounding, or the curious look that Gini is giving him.

.

His eyes are burning, hands aching, but he can't put down the pen. He thinks about it, just for a split second, but thats all it takes for the thoughts to come creeping in, so he decides against it. Instead, he follows the curve of a lowercase g and ignores the tears that are blurring his vision.

"Hey," Virgil whispers, lowering himself to the floor to sit beside Jordan. He heard him coming, heard his soft footsteps padding across the wooden floor, but he didn't have enough energy to lift his head. He still doesn't now. "You're still awake."

"Couldn't sleep," Jordan replies automatically, blinking for the first time in what feels like hours. He finishes with a swooping k and finally puts the pen down, staring at the foam board that's laid across his lap. It doesn't look right. None of it looks right. "It's been twelve years since-" 

"I know," Virgil says softly, cutting Jordan off. He places a gentle hand over Jordan's and prises his fingers away from where they're curled tightly around the board, moving it to one side. Out of sight, out of mind, but it was never really about wedding fonts anyway. It was just - something to do. Something to take his mind off of it. Not that it worked, though. "I know what day it is, Jordan."

Jordan nods. He should have known that Virgil wouldn't forget, because it was the day that things changed between them. It might have been bad, remembered purely for that time Jordan's dad decided he'd had enough and left (he was barely around anyway, so it hasn't made much of a difference - except for the state it left his mum in), but Jordan also remembers the shift in his relationship with Virgil that day.

It was cosmic. Well, it was for an almost thirteen year old, anyway. It still is for an almost twenty six year old. Because he and Virgil had been close, living on the same street and going to the same school and skiving off the same PE lessons for just shy of a year, but now they got each other on a different level. They understood each other.

They both had dads who couldn't give a fuck.

"If you can't sleep, you should at least rest, J," Virgil whispers, leaning his chin on Jordan's shoulder. Jordan can't bring himself to look at him because there's already a lump in his throat. The concern in Virgil's eyes might just send him over the edge. "Let me make you a brew. Do you want a brew?"

"Yes. Please," Jordan says, voice hoarse. Virgil presses a firm hand onto his shoulder - _I'm here, I promise_ \- and then gets to his feet, disappearing into the kitchen with a look back over his shoulder. Jordan lifts the foam board back onto his lap and picks up the pen again. He’s careful when he writes Virgil’s name again, hand less shaky. It comes out better, and he knows why. 

Virgil makes everything better.

“Jordan,” Virgil sighs, frowning when he comes back into the living room. He places both mugs on the coffee table that Jordan has shoved out of the way and takes the foam board again, going as far as to put it on the other side of the room, where neither of them can reach it. "Please can you just – stop? You’re exhausted, you look like shit, and your arms are shaking. I know you’re upset and I know this is how you normally try and cope, but let me take care of you this time, okay?” 

Jordan stares down at his hands. Virgil is right, they are shaking again, and he can’t force them to stop. The tears that have been threatening at the back of his eyes finally break through and start rolling down his cheek, and when he looks up at Virgil standing over him, the younger man makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean.

“I just –” Jordan starts, then cuts himself off. How is he supposed to explain this? “Nobody’s ever looked after me before. I don’t know how to let them.”

Virgil doesn’t say anything. He chews his bottom lip and stares down at Jordan with a soft line between his eyebrows like he doesn’t quite know what to do. Jordan doesn’t blame him if he changes his mind. He doesn’t exactly make it easy for people to care about him, even when he tries.

“Oh, J,” Virgil breathes eventually, breaking whatever weird, thick silence has settled over them. He reaches down to curl his fingers around Jordan’s biceps and then hauls him to his feet. His strength is a little bit of a shock to Jordan, to be honest – he doesn’t even need to move, because Virgil just drags him up – but he goes willingly, stumbling from sheer exhaustion when he finally stands up. “Come here, you idiot.”

The hug Virgil pulls him into is overwhelming. It’s warm, all-encompassing, Virgil’s arms around his shoulders and big, big hands on his back. He doesn’t know what to do, how he’s supposed to move, so he just stands there, fingers clenched into fists. He doesn’t quite trust himself.

“You know how to give me a hug, Jordan,” Virgil says, a sleepy, heavy kind of amusement in his face. Jordan laughs, quiet and breathless, and unclenches his fists. Remembers how to move, relaxing all of his muscles one by one and then wraps his arms around Virgil’s waist, as tight as he possibly dares. Virgil hugs him even closer, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his head. “Just let me do the rest, okay? I will look after you, Jord. When you need me to – I’ll be here, and I’ll look after you.” 

Jordan nods, tucking his face into the side of Virgil’s neck. They stand like that for minutes, hours, days – Jordan wouldn’t know. All he knows is that Virgil rocks them back and forth, gently, like he’s soothing a baby, but it _works_. The trembling in Jordan’s hands finally stops and Virgil doesn’t say anything when he pulls away, just strokes a gentle hand through his hair and kisses his forehead.

“As wonderful as you have been planning my wedding,” Virgil says, a slight smile on his face. He spins Jordan round and maneuvers them both until they’re sitting on the sofa, reaching across to drag the coffee table back in place and pass Jordan his mug. “You need a break, J. You’re exhausted.” 

They’re so close, pressed up together, but it doesn’t feel weird. It’s so, so normal, this intimacy, and Jordan couldn’t imagine his life without it. He can’t give it to anyone else – like his partners, not that they ever last that long, or even his so-called family – but with Virgil, it’s been like this since the very beginning. Virgil gets him, knows all the bad parts of him, sees all the bad moments, and still loves him unconditionally. That’s far more intimacy than he could ever get with anyone else.

Virgil fiddles about with the tv remote until he gets Netflix up on the screen, scrolling through until he finds Brooklyn Nine-Nine. They’ve already started watching the first season, sneaking an episode in every morning while they eat and get ready for work, and it just – it means a lot that Virgil knows how much Jordan loves it. He pays attention, and Jordan isn’t quite used to that.

“Just relax, okay?” Virgil murmurs, snapping Jordan out of his thoughts. He reaches behind his head to find the blanket that’s draped over the back of the sofa and then wraps it around Jordan’s shoulders, making the effort to tuck it in. He laughs when Jordan pouts, resting a hand on his thigh. Camaraderie. That’s all it is. “I know how shitty you feel, but I’m here, and all you have to do is get through tonight. Then we reevaluate in the morning.” 

Jordan looks at Virgil for a moment, considering. The tired sweep of his eyelashes and the flush of his cheeks from being woken up. The fact he hasn’t said a single bad word towards Jordan about the clock ticking over to four in the morning when both of them are sat here. The way he smiles, questioning, when he notices Jordan staring, but doesn’t think it’s weird.

“Thank you,” he says instead of anything else.

These are the reasons he fell in love with Virgil all those years ago, and they are the reasons he’s still in love with him now.

.

He blinks himself awake, trying to shake off the heavy sleepiness that's settled over his body. The television is still on, but it's Netflix asking if they're still watching instead of the actual show. Jordan reaches over and turns the tv off, because he's far too tired to deal with it. 

It's difficult for him to move properly, because there's a weight resting on him. A familiar one, warm and soft. It smells familiar too. His hand skims the top of it - it's Virgil, just Virgil. He feels himself relax, feels safer already.

His head is resting on Jordan's hip, fingers of his left hand curled around his thigh, and he doesn't wake up when Jordan's palm grazes his cheek gently. He wonders, sometimes, what it'd be like if this was his life - all strings attached. He wonders, and his heart aches, and his fingers hover over Virgil's skin hopefully… 

But then he reminds himself that he doesn't get to be happy. Life doesn't work like that, especially not Jordan's, so he forces himself back to reality. Virgil is by his side. Virgil is his best friend. He has Virgil, and he's had him in his life for almost thirteen years, and he's not going anywhere. That's enough for him, because it has to be.

It has to be.

He rests his head on the arm of the couch and cranes his neck so he can see Virgil. The angle is making his muscles hurt but it's worth it, just to watch the delicate flutter of Virgil's eyelashes. He must be dreaming, judging by the way his breathing keeps stuttering. Jordan wonders what he thinks about when he's at his most vulnerable. 

He brushes Virgil's hair off of his forehead and feels his chest squeeze tight when he relaxes, mouth parting slightly and eyelids no longer moving. He seems completely at peace now, and his hand tightens around Jordan's thigh, like he's holding on for dear life.

Jordan watches him until his eyes are burning, and then finally falls asleep - feeling more like himself than he has done all day.

.

Virgil is up and awake when Jordan gets out of the shower, making coffee by the looks of it. He hums appreciatively but disappears into his bedroom, drying his hair and rifling through his wardrobe for something to wear. He feels better this morning. Tired, and there's an aching stiffness in his neck from sleeping on the couch, but better.

He's still towel drying his hair when he goes back into the kitchen, and his coffee is waiting for him on the table. He drops into a chair dramatically, draping the towel over the back of the chair next to him, and smiles at Virgil who is sitting next to him.

"Surely you're not going to work?" Virgil asks, frowning. He looks so concerned that it's almost cute.

"Yeah, of course I am," Jordan says, taking a long sip of his coffee. Really, it's just to avoid talking about this. He is okay, he swears. It's a rough day and it always has been, but not one that warrants taking a holiday or a sick day from work. He is more than capable of sitting in an office for nine hours - it's not like it's a hardship. "I'm fine, Virgil. It's just another day by now."

"That's why you've only had two hours sleep, is it?" Virgil grumbles, but he holds his hands up when Jordan glares at him. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and when he looks back up, Jordan knows he's trying to make himself look as innocent as possible. He hates that it works. "I'm just worried about you, Jordan - can you blame me? But if you're going into work then at least let me make you a decent breakfast."

Jordan stays quiet for a moment, considering (although he's only really doing it to make Virgil squirm), and then finally nods. "What's on the menu?" He asks, watching the beautiful smile that blooms across Virgil's face. You wouldn't be able to tell that he (barely) slept on the sofa last night. His skin is glowing and the way his body moves is incredibly graceful.

"Pancakes," Virgil says decisively, after a long time with his head stuck in the fridge. He glances back over his shoulder and smiles. "I stashed some Nutella where you couldn't find it when I moved in, and we've got some strawberries."

"That's not very healthy," Jordan comments, but he's trying to hide his grin. He's not even offended that Virgil is hiding the chocolate spread from him, because it's probably the best thing he can do. God knows he can't count how many times he and Virgil have sat on a kitchen floor in the middle of the night eating Nutella out of the jar, from secondary school to like, six months ago. Virgil has more self control than Jordan, too.

"Sometimes all you need is a bit of sugar," Virgil says with a shrug. He fetches all the ingredients then gets a bowl out, just opening cupboards and drawers like he owns the place. It makes Jordan feel warm inside, to be honest. It makes him wonder if this is where Virgil belongs, but then he snaps out of it. "And it's a treat. If you insist on going to work, then I'm going to make sure you're set up for the day."

"Fine," Jordan says, rolling his eyes. What he doesn't mention is that simply being in Virgil's company is more than enough to set him up for the day.

.

“I just don’t get it,” Virgil says, flicking through the book in front of him. He frowns down at the pictures, tracing the petals that are printed on the paper, and then looks back up at Jordan helplessly. "They all look the same. How am I meant to know what to choose?"

"I showed you that list last night," Jordan says, rolling his eyes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and gets the list they were looking at - flower meanings, on some website about the Victorian era. God knows Virgil needs all the help he can get. "You narrowed it down to asters, calla lilies, gardenias, lavender, orchids, and peonies."

"But I don't know what any of those look like," Virgil says. He sounds so bewildered that Jordan actually feels sorry for him, patting his knee and asking the florist to get one of each for Virgil to see. "Why are flowers even important? I get that they look pretty, but _why_?"

"We believe that it's an old tradition, dating back to the fifteenth century," the shop assistant says, placing the flowers that Jordan asked for on the small table in front of them. She reminds Jordan of his mum, except - nicer. Much, much nicer. So nothing like her at all, really. "Most weddings took place in June, and everyone took their yearly baths in May. Flowers were perfect to mask the smell, and it just stuck. Now, it's simply for aesthetic purposes."

Virgil looks fascinated, nodding along with the florist, and when she's finished, he turns to Jordan. "To be honest, I'm not sure Stella would smell all that great right now," he says, wrinkling his nose. "So we'll probably need the flowers for when she gets back."

Jordan can't help but laugh, hidden behind his hand, and knocks into Virgil's shoulder. They'd never let Stella hear them say that, of course - they'd probably never make it out alive. "Oh, sorry," Jordan says, catching the eye of the florist, who is frowning curiously. "Stella is the bride. Virgil's bride. Not mine, obviously. It's not my wedding."

"Oh," the florist says, flushing a bit pink. It could be embarrassment, but it could just be the menopause. Jordan hasn't really spent a lot of time around middle aged women - he tends to stay clear of them. He knows what his own mother is like. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I thought you two were- you just seemed so --" 

"No - Stella, my gir- my fiance, she's a doctor. She's volunteering in a rural village in Cambodia, and it's pretty difficult to plan a wedding from the other side of the world," Virgil explains. He's turned a similar shade of pink as the florist, while Jordan just cringes at the hope that's settled in his stomach. "I'm pretty useless, as you can probably tell from watching me try and pick flowers, so Stella insisted I get help from my wonderful best man."

Jordan tunes them out. Distantly, he knows that they’ve carried on their conversation - the florist has started asking what Stella is like, and Virgil sounds eager to reply - but he turns his attention to the table in front of him instead, fingertips skimming the petals gently. 

His mum had a gardenia bush in the front garden, and the sight of them always reminds him of her. Well - of the time he accidentally trampled all over them to get his football back, and she decided to lock him out of the house. He ended up staying at Virgil’s. He had nowhere else to go, because all his dad said was that he’d deserved it. 

He was fifteen years old and he slept on Virgil’s bedroom floor for a week, and then when his mum decided that the punishment was enough, she accused him of running away. There was absolutely no winning with her.

Anyway. He shakes himself out of the past and back to reality; to the flowers on the table and the familiar scent of Virgil’s aftershave surrounding him. It grounds him, makes him realise that things are finally good. Regardless, he pushes the gardenia to the side, and decides that it’s out of the question entirely. 

He’s drawn to the peonies, and nothing else. Purple is what he’d told the florist when she asked about the colour scheme, purple and white, and she’s brought out three different shades of purple, plus some pink ones. They’re all lovely and delicate, and they’d suit Stella perfectly. He can already picture her, walking down the aisle in her white dress, holding them in front of her - as much as it hurts. 

He picks up the three shades of purple and holds them together, by the stems so he doesn’t damage the petals. He’s always been heavy handed, but it probably wouldn’t be a good omen if he crushed the flowers for the wedding he’s planning before the bride (or the groom for that matter, considering he’s still deep in conversation) has seen them. 

Except maybe Virgil has.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, hand covering Jordan’s fingers so he can’t move away. Jordan looks up at him with wide eyes and watches the awed look on his face. His thumb brushes over the petals and he carefully takes all three flowers out of Jordan’s hand, examining them. “These ones. This is all we need, they’re perfect.”

“Very good choice, sir,” the florist says, nodding approvingly. “We can add some baby’s breath and greenery to make the colours pop, too. I’ll just nip to the back and get some so you can see for yourself.”

Virgil waits until she’s gone and then turns to Jordan, grasping his knee tightly. “I just - I know I keep saying this, but thank you. No, I mean it. You’ve been amazing through all of this and everything you choose is perfect. I don’t know where I’d be without you, Jord. _Thank you_ ,” he says, thumb skimming Jordan’s thigh soothingly.

“It’s my pleasure, Virgil,” Jordan whispers, swallowing the lump in his throat. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the lie. 

.

Jordan wakes up to the phantom sensation of a hand in hair, a cup of tea on the bedside table, and a note on his pillow. He only notices the note because he puts his hand on it when he sits up, and he picks it up carefully.

**_J,_ **

**_happy birthday bro! Opened the cafe early to prep for tonight, because I'm leaving Gini and Ki in charge. I'll be home by the time you get back from work. Have a good day, sunshine!_ **

**_V x_ **

He smiles, picking up the mug of tea that Virgil left by his bed. Only one sugar and plenty strong enough, just the way he likes it. The flat is weirdly quiet without Virgil. Normally, Jordan would wake up to the sound of him cooking breakfast, or the kettle boiling, or the shower running. Now, it's just nothing, and it's quite unsettling.

He doesn't know when he got so used to Virgil being here, but he can't say he hates it.

Still, he can process that another day. Now, it's his birthday, so he's allowed to indulge in those thoughts. Virgil is living with him and it's just the two of them, and they're going to celebrate his birthday together - alone. Just the way he likes it.

He drags himself out of bed, taking his tea with him, and pads through to the kitchen. He's half expecting to see Virgil sat at the table but it's empty - instead, there's a full breakfast spread laid out, with a single sticky note pressed onto one of the plates. All it says is _**surprise!**_ with a tiny smiley face and Jordan plucks it off.

There's a grin on his face and even though he can't see it, he knows it's sickening. He's almost glad he's alone, but it still feels weird eating by himself, so he dials Virgil's number and puts it on speakerphone before he sits at the table, looking at all the food that's spread in front of him. He doesn't know where to start.

"Good morning, birthday boy!" Virgil says when he answers, voice far too bright for eight in the morning. Jordan will never get used to his enthusiasm.

"Hi, Virgil," Jordan says. He's grateful that nobody can see the pink flush on his face, and he takes a long sip of his tea while he thinks of what to say next. There are a million things running through his head but none of them seem appropriate, so he settles on something safe instead. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Of course I did," Virgil says. He sounds amused, voice almost drowned out by the sound of him chopping something in the background. Jordan can imagine him at the crack of dawn this morning, slicing apples and washing grapes. Just because it's his best friend's birthday. Just because he wants to make someone smile. "It's your birthday, J. I have to spoil you."

"You and everyone else," Jordan huffs, but it's good natured. He tears a croissant in half and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully while he scrolls through all his notifications. WhatsApp, Facebook, god knows what else. All of it people wishing him a happy birthday. He forgets how loved he is, sometimes. "Some of the office are insisting on taking me out for lunch today, so that'll be nice."

"Well, don't eat too much," Virgil says. Jordan cringes away from the sound of some saucepans banging together, and almost feels guilty for keeping Virgil away from his work, but this is his day so he doesn't actually care too much. "You don't want to spoil the three course meal I'll be cooking you tonight."

Jordan rolls his eyes even though Virgil can't see him. "Once again, you-" He starts, but Virgil cuts him off.

"I didn't have to do all that, yeah, I know," Virgil says. It sounds like it's his turn to roll his eyes now. Jordan wishes he could see it. "But I wanted to. It's your special day and you're special to me, so when you get home, I'll be cooking the best food you've ever tasted. Is that okay?" 

"I suppose it'll have to be," Jordan mutters, but he probably doesn't sound as mad as he's pretending to be. He just feels so incredibly lucky to have Virgil in his life. He can't even begin to imagine what it'd feel like to be Stella. "I have to go and shower, Virg. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Of course!" Virgil says. He blows a kiss down the phone like he always does, and Jordan feels a blush creep onto his cheeks. "Love you!" 

"Love you too," Jordan says, making it sound more begrudging than he feels. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep up pretences, does it? 

.

He's alone when he gets home, but at least this time he knows he won't be alone for long. His boss let him finish after lunch - feeling generous because it's his birthday, apparently - so that gives him time to shower and change before Virgil gets home and starts cooking. 

It's been a good day. The best one he's had in years, to be honest, because he hasn't had to spend it with his so-called family. Alright, he was alone for breakfast and then he spent the next few hours at work, but sitting in the middle of a Beirut street for twenty four hours would be more preferable than that time he invited both of his parents for dinner in the hope that they could put their differences aside to celebrate their only son's twenty first birthday.

(He was very much wrong. Virgil was his only saving grace that day). 

Still, that doesn't matter now. He's here and he's happy, and he can put that behind him. Because he learnt his lesson, and he hasn't seen his parents together since that day. He knows better than he did at twenty one, and he's definitely not about to make the same mistake twice. This time, he's just going to focus on Virgil.

He showers on autopilot, washes his hair just to kill some time. He didn't like the way it dried this morning, anyway. He uses Virgil's shower gel before he even realises he's picked it up, but he doesn't hate the way the familiar scent floods his senses. It's stupid, but it makes him feel -- happy. Safe. Untouchable.

He's barely dressed when the buzzer goes, and he doesn't bother answering to see who it is. He knows that it's just going to be Virgil, because he always leaves his keys anywhere he goes. Usually under the counter in the cafe, but Jordan has found them in the pocket of his apron a hundred times as well. 

"How many times have I told you about checking you've got your keys?" Jordan asks, faux irritated. He doesn't mean it though, because he's never been angry at Virgil a day in his life. Still, he can't help the smile that's on his face when he leaves his bedroom, but he feels like it's allowed. It is his birthday, after all.

"Jordan," a voice says. It's not Virgil - in fact, it's not even remotely similar, and he feels his heart sink when he steps into the hallway and sees the person.

His mother.

“Mum,” he breathes. He can’t help the hope that seeps into his voice and he hates it, because there’s only one way this can end. Still – maybe it’ll be different this time. There’s a first time for everything, right? Maybe this is it. The day Jordan has been waiting for since he was six years old and his little sister was born, and his mother decided that he just wasn’t good enough for her anymore. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?” She says, raising an eyebrow. He’s not entirely sure that the question isn’t rhetoric and she’s actually asking if it is his birthday, because she didn’t even bother showing up last year. He could’ve been dead for all she knows – he hasn’t spoken to her for almost two full years. “Is it a crime for a mother to visit her son on his birthday?” 

“No, of course not,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He feels awkward already but it’s not going as bad as it possibly could – somewhere between best and worst case scenario. Probably the most he could ask for, to be honest. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes please, Jordan,” she says, nods all serious – like she isn't his fucking mother. This is what he’d imagine meeting the Queen is like, all pompous and stiff upper lip. God knows his parents have never quite greeted him with a hug, but would it hurt to _smile_? It is his birthday, after all. “No milk, no sugar.”

Like he could ever forget. All he was good for for the twelve years between Jody’s arrival and him moving out was making tea. 

He considers texting Virgil while he’s waiting for the kettle to boil but ultimately decides against it, because he knows exactly what Virgil would say. It’d probably be fairly full of swear words too, and Jordan really doesn’t have the energy for that on a day like today, so. He makes the tea and brings it out into the living room, handing the mug to her. She doesn’t take it, just gives him a hard stare, so he puts it on the coffee table instead.

“Are you getting married?” She asks simply, staring past him and at the foam boards that are set up in the corner. She won’t meet his eye and a wave of nausea rolls through his stomach. He’s not even sure he would’ve let her in if he knew who it was. 

“No,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. He follows the line of her gaze and then stares back down at his hands, taking a long, long sip of his tea. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to insinuate. Does she really think he wouldn’t tell her if he was getting married? … _Would he_ tell her? “Virgil is getting married, I’m helping him plan it.” 

“That makes more sense,” she says, nodding like she gets it. She finally meets his gaze and he almost cowers away from the look in her eyes – but she did not raise a quitter. Well, she didn’t raise him at all, to be honest, but he’s still not a fucking quitter. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction. She doesn’t deserve it. “God knows nobody would want _you_. Even your own father fucked off and left you.” 

“That- that’s not fair,” he stammers, placing his mug on the table heavily. Some of the tea sloshes over the side and he grabs a tissue to mop it up, but his hands are shaking and he’s just making it worse. “That’s not –”

“I mean, just look at you. Always making a mess,” she snaps, snatching the tissue off of him. Her nails scratch across the back of his hand and blood bubbles to the surface of his skin, and he pulls his hand back in disbelief. “You fuck up everything you touch.”

“Why are you being like this?” He asks, desperately overwhelmed. He doesn’t know whether this is the cruelest she’s ever been or if he’s just forgotten what it feels like to have a mother that hates you.

“ _’That’s not fair’_?” She says, mocking him unkindly. The tissue is soaking wet now the table is mostly dry and she throws it into his half full mug, glaring at him with a furious look on her face. He’s only ever seen her like this once, and it really didn’t end well. “Life isn’t fucking fair, Jordan. It wasn’t fair when you made your dad leave, and it wasn’t fair of him to leave me with a horrible little human being like you, but I never complained about it!” 

“You complained about it plenty!” He spits back, raising his voice. It’s the first time he’s ever shouted back at her, and it seems to be making her even more angry. Still, he can’t help it. He’s an awful combination of terrified, anxious, and furious. 

“How dare you,” she says, voice low and dangerous. She stands and points her index finger right in his face, threatening and shaking with anger. He hates it. He just wants to be normal, to have a normal family and a normal life and not wake up every morning hating himself. “How _dare_ you raise your voice at me after everything I’ve done for you." 

Jordan gets to his feet just so he can take a few steps back, away from her spitting fury, and cross his arms over his chest. It’s a shield but it’s a weak one, and it definitely won’t protect him from whatever his mother is about to throw at him. He doesn’t think there’s anything that can protect him from that.

“ _Everything you’ve done for me_?” He repeats incredulously. She takes a step forward and he doesn’t back away this time. He needs to hold his ground, to show her that he isn’t scared of him. She might be his mother but that doesn’t give her the right to talk to him like that. He has more self respect than that. “The only thing you’ve done is not give a shit about me because you couldn’t accept that your husband couldn’t give a fuck about you! But you know what? He was right to leave you, and I don’t blame him for wanting to get as far away as he possibly could!” 

It’s almost like he hears the slap before he feels it. Her open palm meeting the skin of his cheek, the sharp sound of it reaching his ears, and only then does the sting come. Tears fill his eyes, and not because of the physical pain.

“Jordan,” a voice says. This time it is Virgil, but he doesn’t feel relief like he normally would. He’s frozen to the spot, can’t even look away from the fury in his mother’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” his mum snaps, turning her glare on Virgil. She seems a bit affronted when he doesn’t back down, either. If anything, he seems to grow bigger in stature, puffing his chest out subconsciously. “I came to wish my own selfish piece of a shit of a son a happy birthday, and he’s just thrown it back in my face! He’s _pathetic_ like I always knew he-” 

“And after all that, you didn’t even say happy birthday!” Jordan says, laughing harshly. It makes his cheek sting even more, and this time, he doesn’t even flinch when his mother springs towards him like she’s going to hit him. She doesn’t even make it that far, because Virgil pushes his body in front of Jordan and grabs her wrist before she can make contact.

“Get out,” Virgil says, voice quiet and dangerous. The silence in the room is suffocating – you could hear a pin drop. Jordan can hear the beating of his own heart, wild and erratic. It’s almost deafening. 

“Excuse me?” Jordan’s mother says, tearing her arm out of Virgil’s grip. She’s practically spitting, so furious that it radiates off her. Jordan tries not to let it terrify him. “Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that?” 

“Who do you think _you_ are, talking to your own son like that?” Virgil hisses back. He reaches behind him like he’s not thinking about it and feels around for Jordan’s hand, like he’s just trying to make sure he’s okay. Jordan fits their palms together and squeezes his hand, but then drops it like he’s been burned. “I said, get. Out.” 

“Fine – I can already feel myself losing brain cells just by standing in this dump,” she snaps. Virgil grabs her by the shoulder and turns her towards the door, but she shakes him off with some hissed swearing. He doesn’t give up, escorting her out like he wants to triple check she’s actually gone. “If I were you, Virgil, I’d count myself lucky that I was getting married and moving on from him. Soon enough he’ll be alone, just like he deserves, because he’s good for absolutely _nothing_.”

Virgil slams the door behind her so hard that the entire room shakes.

There’s silence for one beat, then two, then three. They carry on, stretching out into long, insufferable minutes that feel like hours, and all Jordan can hear is the sound of his own wet breathing. He wraps his arms around himself and stares down at the floor, tries to stop the tears from spilling over his cheeks. She isn’t fucking worthy of his tears, and he knows that. 

“Jordan,” Virgil whispers. Jordan’s never quite heard him sound like this – at a loss, pitying, almost scared. He doesn’t have anything to be scared about, because Jordan isn’t exactly about to turn into the Incredible Hulk. Virgil seems to snap out of it quickly though and he reaches out to curl a hand around Jordan’s shoulder. He tries not to seem offended when Jordan flinches away.

“Please don’t touch me,” Jordan says, hating the way his voice trembles. He twists his body away from Virgil, not quite having the sense to see straight enough to put one foot in front of the other, so he can’t walk away. “Please.” 

If Virgil touches him, he’s going to break. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to put himself back together again.

“Okay,” Virgil says, sounding desperately confused like he doesn’t know what to do now. Well, that makes two of them. This is completely uncharted territory. 

“I’m just going to go to bed,” Jordan says, staring at the patch of carpet in front of him. There’s a stain there, a pen mark. He should probably try and clean that up at some point, or he won’t get his security deposit back when he eventually moves out. _If_ he moves out – he’ll probably just die here. “Don’t wait up.”

“It’s half past three, Jordan,” Virgil says. Jordan glances up and sees the concerned frown on his face, and looks straight back down. He doesn’t want to see it. It simply makes him feel worse. “What about dinner? You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jordan says, and finally finds the effort to walk away. He somehow puts one foot in front of the other and stumbles into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a resounding thud. 

Only then, when he’s laying face down and buried underneath his duvet, does he let himself cry.

.

Jordan doesn’t sleep, but he goes into some kind of – a trance. That’s the only way he can describe it. He stares at the blank wall for hours, barely blinking and eyes burning, and focuses on his breathing. That’s the only way he can get through this. Just breathe. Carry on, and breathe. 

He snaps out of it when he hears his door open. It makes him cringe, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, but he tries not to move too much. He loves Virgil, but he doesn’t want to invite contact.

Of course, Virgil initiates contact anyway.

He slides into Jordan’s bed, under the covers, and shuffles up close to him. Fits his body into all the curves of Jordan’s, an arm around his waist as he presses a chaste kiss to his shoulder. He’s just holding him, like he knows he needs it. Of course, Jordan is pretending he doesn’t need it, but he does. He really, really does.

“Virgil –” Jordan says sharply, muscles going tense. “I told you, I don’t want –”

“Shut up,” Virgil whispers, grabbing a handful of Jordan’s t-shirt, right over his stomach, and squeezing gently. It’s still light out, rays of sun seeping through the crack in the curtains, but it feels like it could be the middle of the night. It feels like this should be happening in the middle of the night, when it’s quiet and private things are easier to talk about. “Just let me comfort you, Jordan. Let me be there for you.”

Jordan considers it for a minute, dips his head. Eventually, he whispers, “alright,” and that’s it. It really is that easy. 

Virgil presses his forehead against Jordan’s shoulder blade and just breathes for a minute, the drag of his eyelashes heavy against Jordan’s t-shirt when he blinks. The silence is more bearable when he’s got someone to share it with. He doesn’t know why he’s never thought of it like that before.

“I hate her,” Jordan says suddenly. His voice is still fierce but unsteady, shaking over every word, but it’s the most sincere he’s ever been in his life. There’s no way he can go back to her after that, and he’d only be betraying himself if he let her back in. “I hate her so much, Virgil. I’m done with her. I can’t put myself through it anymore.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Virgil whispers, although he definitely knows exactly what Jordan means. He also knows that Jordan will have to say the words out loud, coaxing it out of him so they can talk about it properly and sort through it all.

Jordan is a burden, and he knows that. For some reason, though, Virgil doesn’t seem to mind the weight of being stuck with him. 

“I’m cutting off all contact with her,” Jordan says. He’s decisive this time, voice no longer trembling. It actually feels empowering to say it, and Virgil tightens his grip on Jordan’s stomach. He turns over just so he can look Virgil in the eye, and realises that he has taken his shirt off before getting into bed. His stomach is warm where Jordan’s knuckles brush against it. “I’m getting her out of my life for good. And my dad too, for that matter, but that won’t change much, because I don’t speak to him anyway. It’s done.” 

“I’m proud of you,” Virgil says, stretching forward to press a kiss to Jordan’s temple. He doesn’t move away, just stays there with his nose buried in Jordan’s hair, other hand coming up to tangle in the strands. It makes Jordan feel – different. Unbelievable. “It’s the right decision.” 

“Is it?” Jordan asks, a little desperate. The implications of his decision have started to kick in and his heart is pounding in his chest, mouth dry. He feels so anxious that it makes him feel sick, fingernails digging into his sweaty palms. “I’ve basically just orphaned myself. Your parents are supposed to be the only people who love you unconditionally, and I’ve just told mine to fuck off!” 

He’s reaching hysterical now and he curls his hands around Virgil’s arm to try and prise it away, so he can escape and deal with this by himself. He feels like he’s going to have a panic attack, breathing shallow and fast, but Virgil doesn’t let him go. If anything, he just holds even tighter.

“Jordan, listen to my voice. Focus on your breathing, come on, breathe with me. That’s it – that’s good,” Virgil says, voice firm as he breathes in and out deeply. He nods encouragingly when Jordan starts to copy the pattern and carries it on until he’s just about managed to calm down, tears making his eyelashes wet. “I know this is difficult for you, Jordan. It would be for anyone. But I won’t apologise for saying it’s the right decision – it’s a difficult one, but it’s still the right one. She’s been making you unhappy for years, they both have. Every single day I see things, little scars that they caused, that change your behaviour. 

“When we were kids – God, when we were kids, I watched you change a tiny bit every single day until you were basically a completely different person. That was your mother and father, Jordan. They did that. They broke you down until you felt worthless, and it hurt me to see it. It still hurts all these years later, especially because they’re _still_ doing it. And you deserve better. You always have deserved better, because you are brilliant and amazing and smart and thoughtful and – just the best, the _best_ person I have ever met. But you don’t see that, because they never let you see that. But I’m telling you now, and I’m going to make sure you believe me.” 

“I just – I’m twenty fucking six, and I don’t even feel like I know who I am. I should know that by now, shouldn’t I? I’m supposed to be an adult with a life – a family and a house and a steady job, but I don’t even know myself one day from the next,” Jordan admits. Once he starts talking, he can’t stop, and every single insecurity is spilling out of his mouth. “When I’m with you, I think I do. When I’m with you, I feel like I know myself and I don’t second guess it. But then she comes along, her or my dad or just – _anyone_ that reminds me of them, even Jody, sometimes. And then I forget who I am all over again. I forget who I’m supposed to be, and that makes me feel like a failure.” 

Virgil closes his eyes briefly and sneaks a hand underneath Jordan’s shoulders so he can pull him closer, until he’s tight against his chest and Virgil’s lips are in his hair. His breathing is a little unsteady and if Jordan thought he was worth it, he’d hazard a guess that Virgil is trying not to cry. As it is, though – 

“You are not a failure,” Virgil says fiercely, fingers tangling in Jordan’s hair and tugging sharply. It brings him back down to earth, grounds him. “You are exactly who you think you are when you’re with me. That’s you, I promise. I’m not all that smart and I don’t know about a lot of things, but I _do_ know that. I know you, and I know that you know you too. I’m proud of the person you’ve become, and you should be as well. You are my best friend. You mean more to me than anyone else in the entire world.”

“You can’t say that,” Jordan says, even though he desperately, desperately wants to believe it. The fact is though – he’s nobody’s priority. It’s just something he has to get used to. “You can’t say that, because my mum was right. You’re marrying Stella and then your priorities will all change, and you won’t have any time for me. You might think you do, but you have a successful cafe to run and you’re going to have a wife who you dote on and the next step is having kids, and then before you even realise it, I’ll be bottom of your list, and we probably won’t even _talk_ anymore. You can’t base your value of me on some- some unlikely _fantasy_ you’ve made in your head, Virgil. You can’t do that. You can’t do that to _me_ , because it’s not fair!” 

The silence stretches out into long, long minutes, and Jordan worries that he’s pushed Virgil away entirely. Subconsciously, that was probably the point, but it’s not what he wants. It’s just – easier that way. Still, Virgil hasn’t shoved him away or left the room or even left the _flat_ , so it’s probably a good sign. The best that Jordan is going to get, anyway.

“Is that really what you think?” Virgil asks quietly. He sounds hurt. Jordan feels guilty.

“Yes,” Jordan admits. That one word is harder to get out than all of the others, because he knows that it’s make or break. It could end his friendship with the only person he’s ever really loved, and not just in a romantic way. It could ruin everything with the only person who’s ever truly given a fuck about him.

He doesn’t know how he’d survive without it.

“Oh, Jordan,” Virgil breathes. He pulls Jordan in even tighter, one leg slipping between his in the need to get closer, and presses kiss after kiss after kiss to his hair. Jordan has probably just broken his heart, but somehow he’s the one giving comfort. The thought seems absurd. “I promise you that none of that will ever happen. What do you think this is, hm? Because you’re not just a friend. You’re not just my best friend. You are my _family_. Stella could never replace you, because she doesn’t understand me. She doesn’t understand where I’ve come from, or what I’ve been through on the way. And you’re the only person in my life that knows that, the only person who knows what it feels like. I love you so, so much, Jordan. You mean the world to me, and I’m not going to throw that away just because one part of my life is changing.” 

“But just because that’s only a part of your life now doesn’t mean it won’t grow,” Jordan says. He gives up the ghost and rests his forehead against Virgil’s collarbone, trying his hardest to draw strength from him. God knows he needs it. “Because it will. Right now she’s just your fiance, but when she’s your wife, that part will get bigger. And then you’ll – I don’t know, get a joint mortgage. And a few years down the line, you’ll have kids. You’ll have all these parts growing bigger and bigger, and what with the cafe already being a pretty big part, you’ll have no room for anything else. You won’t be able to keep all those plates spinning. I know you, Virgil, and I know that you can’t multitask. You won’t be able to juggle all those things plus me and my baggage.”

“Well if you know me, then you’d know that I’m not going to forget about you,” Virgil says. He sounds impatient now, but he smooths Jordan’s hair off his forehead and presses a warm kiss there anyway, and he doesn’t complain when Jordan’s hand comes up to clutch his shoulder blade like it’s a lifeline. “If you really know me, then you’d know how important you are to me. Look, Jordan, I know things aren’t easy for you – they never have been. But I try to spend every single second we’re together, or talking, or even just playing FIFA together online, making things the tiniest bit easier, any way I can. Because you make me smile. You make me feel loved when I feel like everyone else has forgotten about me. You help out at the cafe and you don’t accept anything in return, and you make me tea when I’m stressed, and sometimes when I’m tired you try and cook me meals even though we both know you’re bad at it. You do all of those things because you’re selfless, so if you really knew me, then you would know that all I’m doing is trying to smooth out the bumps in your life one conversation, one hug at a time. Because that’s all I can do to give back to you for everything that you do for me.” 

Tears are threatening at the corners of Jordan’s eyes for a different reason now. He rolls his lips into a straight line and bumps his nose against Virgil’s shoulder and smiles, pressing it against Virgil’s bare skin. He needs to feel it. He needs to know how his words make Jordan feel. 

“I don’t have anything to say to that,” Jordan says eventually. His voice is quiet because he hates to admit defeat – but this time, he’s not quite angry about it. If there’s one person he wouldn’t mind backing down against, it has to be Virgil.

“Good,” Virgil says. He sounds heavily amused but he squeezes the back of Jordan’s neck tight, and his lips brush lightly against Jordan’s temple. “I know that you’re not going to believe it. Not right away, anyway – but God, Jord. One day, when we’re five or ten or twenty years into the future, you’ll back on this and realise that I was right. Because I’ll still be by your side, being your best friend, and you’ll still be by mine. We’ll still be attached at the hip, and there will still probably be someone thinking we’re a couple, and we’ll laugh about it because that’s what a family is supposed to be like.” 

Jordan swallows and he knows that Virgil must be able to feel the movement against his bicep. Instead of saying anything, he rubs his thumb through the short shaved hairs at the base of Jordan’s skull, back and forth, like a mantra. “...Okay,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to Virgil’s bare shoulder. “Okay, I trust you.” 

“You should, because I’m always right,” Virgil says. There’s an insult on the tip of Jordan’s tongue in an instant but he swallows it back and enjoys the moment in silence, listening to the steady, soothing beating of Virgil’s heart. Well, it’s only soothing until he speaks again. “Did you use my expensive shower gel?” 

“Oh,” Jordan says, feeling his cheeks flush bright red. He’s glad that Virgil can’t see his face right now. “Yeah, I showered when I got in. I forgot about it. Sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“It’s okay,” Virgil says, somewhat absently. His thumb is tracing patterns on Jordan’s neck now, and the fingers of his other hand are curled around his waist. It’s so intimate that it sets Jordan’s mind racing, no matter how hard he tries to stop it. “It smells good on you. I like it.” 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to that. 

.

Jordan startles awake to Virgil’s hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm. 

“Hey, sorry,” Virgil whispers, quiet like he doesn’t want to wake Jordan up too much. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, because they’d just spent long, long hours talking quietly, about everything and nothing. Virgil had fallen asleep eventually, still wrapped around Jordan like an octopus, but Jordan had just laid there with burning eyes. The day kept replaying through his mind and it kept him up, but he must’ve dozed off eventually. “I didn’t want you to wake up and find I was gone. I just need to nip to the cafe and open up, but I’m leaving Gini in charge today. I’ll give him the spare keys for later so I don’t have to go back out. I’ll be an hour tops, okay?” 

“Okay,” Jordan says sleepily, a little bit confused. He isn’t awake enough to deal with it, so he just settles back down when Virgil smiles at him and combs a careful hand through his hair. It makes him feel safe.

He tries to fall back asleep when Virgil leaves the room but all he can hear is him pottering about in the living room, muttering curse words when he can’t find his shoes and the sound of the keys in his hand. It’s still comforting, listening to Virgil, knowing he exists in the same sphere as Jordan. It still makes him feel safe.

But then the door clicks shut and Jordan hears the lock turning, and suddenly he feels so incredibly alone that it hurts. The fear spreads through him like icy water, freezing his veins, and it doesn’t go away when he pulls the duvet tighter around his body. It just hits him – is Virgil going to come back?

Is Virgil going to come back, or is Jordan well and truly on his own from now on?

He wouldn’t blame him. That’s the thing: Jordan wouldn’t blame him one bit if last night was too much for him and he realised he couldn’t stick around anymore. Maybe he cottoned on that Jordan has feelings for him and decided it would be kinder to up and leave instead of letting him down. Maybe he thought that all of Jordan’s insecurities were too heavy for him to deal with, considering he has a cafe and an almost wife and a life of his own.

Jordan’s kicking himself now. He knew that he shouldn’t have admitted all his darkest secrets, but Virgil was looking at him like he wanted to know everything and he just couldn’t help himself. Maybe that was the plan – maybe Virgil just wanted to know what he was dealing with, so he could find a perfectly reasonable excuse to leave.

Or maybe Jordan is just digging himself into a hole. Panicking for no reason, and Virgil will breeze back through the door and go about his day like normal. He hopes it’s the latter, although it seems the most unlikely.

He buries his head under the duvet and waits for the sound of Virgil’s footsteps in the hallway.

.

Again, he doesn’t sleep, but he snaps back to reality when he hears Virgil’s key scraping in the lock. Jordan’s out of bed in an instant, running an anxious hand through his hair and trying not to let on that he’s spent the past god knows how long having a continuous panic attack.

“Hey, you,” Virgil says when he hears Jordan’s footsteps in the kitchen. He’s got shopping bags on the counter and he’s already started unpacking the groceries, barely paying any attention when Jordan hovers near his elbow. “Sorry I took longer than I said. I thought it would be nice if we sampled the wedding buffet today, but then I realised we were out of a few things I needed. Took a detour to the market but apparently, everyone decided to go to the market today, so… Jordan? What’s wrong?”

He finally turns, a little bit startled by how close Jordan is standing, but the look on his face is so concerned, so _welcoming_ , that Jordan can’t help but make his confessions.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he says, so fast all the words trip over themselves. If he doesn’t get it out now, he never will, and he glances down as Virgil’s hand closes around his elbow. “I know it’s stupid, but I just – I convinced myself that yesterday was too much for you and you’d left and you weren’t coming back. But now you’re here so I’m fine, I promise.” 

“You’re not fine, J,” Virgil says, voice full of sympathy. He slides his hand up Jordan’s bicep and pulls him in for a hug, quick and loose, and then holds him at arm’s length. “You’re not fine, and you don’t need to prove that to me. You’ve been through something really traumatic, and that’s – well, it’s not okay, but it’s something that we can deal with. Now it’s my turn to make you promises: I will always come back to you. Always. Alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jordan says, although it’s unconvincing. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, alright.” 

“Just remember that,” Virgil says kindly, turning back to the bags on the counter. He starts pulling stuff out again, meat and vegetables and spices that Jordan wouldn’t know what to do with even after thousands of hours of teaching. “While I was at the cafe I had to nip upstairs, and I was thinking – it’s such a wasted space, isn’t it? I might look into doing it up and renting it out as a flat.”

“Look, I know it’s stupid –” Jordan says again, blurting the words out before he can stop them. What even is it about Virgil that makes him so inviting? So easy to open up to? “– I know I’m being needy. But I can’t help it. I hate it, but I can’t make it stop.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, J,” Virgil says. He’s patient as ever and he abandons the shopping bags, turning around and curling a gentle hand around Jordan’s bicep. His eyebrows are drawn together, concerned but like, soft, almost, and Jordan just feels helpless in the face of that expression. Virgil _cares_ about him, and it’s written all over his features. “I know you’re feeling a bit – fragile or whatever, but it’s okay. You don’t need to hide it from me, and you don’t need a reason for it. Yesterday was shitty but it’s over now, and we’re going to celebrate your birthday properly. Just the two of us. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jordan whispers, blowing out a deep breath. Virgil smiles and pulls him in for a quick hug, lips brushing his temple briefly, but then he pulls back.

“Why don’t you go for a shower?” He says, squeezing Jordan’s arm. “Take your time. It’ll make you feel better, and by the time you’re done, I’ll have the buffet sorted. It’s already lunchtime, so I’m pretty sure we can get away with it. Call it a – birthday treat, especially for you.”

“Thank you,” Jordan says. There’s a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips and he dips his head to hide the blush on his cheeks, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work, because Virgil passes a hand through his hair and then ushers him in the direction of the bathroom.

If only he could ignore the cruel little voice in his head (the one that sounds suspiciously like his mother), he’d probably believe that Virgil isn’t going anywhere.

If fucking only.

.

He takes his time in the shower. Shaves, even puts some moisturiser on because he likes the way it makes his skin feel, and then brushes a little bit of Virgil’s conditioning oil through his hair. It feels a little bit ridiculous to tart himself up like this when he’s only going to be changing into a ratty old t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms, but he likes to take care of himself.

He wraps his softest towel around his waist and heads back through to his bedroom, half expecting it to be empty, but Virgil is sitting on his bed and he looks up with a smile when he sees Jordan step through the door.

“Sorry,” he says, and the familiarity of his voice relaxes all the muscles that Jordan didn’t even know were tense. It’s only been half an hour since he last heard it, but still. It makes him realise how codependent he’s become since Virgil moved in. “Didn’t realise you’d be done so soon.”

“It’s okay,” Jordan says, turning and rifling through his drawers for some boxers and an old t-shirt. He changes right there, because he’s never bothered being self conscious about Virgil seeing his body, and he’s not going to start now. They’ve known each other too long, been through far too much. “What are you up to?”

“Well,” Virgil says, drawing the word out in a sing-song voice. He reaches behind his back and pulls out a little baggie and two joints that he’s already rolled, cheeks rounded with a smile. “I did take an extra-extra detour. Purely essential shopping, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Jordan says, raising his eyebrows. He goes to get a hoodie off the hook on the back of his door, but Virgil sticks his leg out and stops him in his path, motioning at the space on the bed next to him. His own hoodie is laid out there – Jordan’s favourite, because it’s big and it’s soft and it smells like Virgil. He flushes bright red just because the gesture means so much. “I thought you stopped smoking when you got with Stella.”

“I did,” Virgil says matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious. Less obvious when Jordan’s bedroom stinks of weed and he’s dug out the shitty old grinder they used when they were at university, though. “But I figured we deserved it. It’s a special occasion. And – as long as she never finds out, we’re fine.” 

“Probably not a good idea to taste your wedding buffet high, though,” Jordan points out. He’s rapidly running out of counter arguments and to be honest, he doesn’t even _want_ to argue it. He just feels like he should – for Virgil’s sake, instead of his own.

To be honest, he could really fucking do with getting so high that nothing makes sense.

“Yeah, well,” Virgil says, pulling out another skin and rolling up again. It’s almost fascinating to watch the delicate way his fingers move – maybe it’s the intrinsic Dutch in him. “My food is already good enough without the enhanced taste buds, so I don’t think we need to worry.” 

“As long as Stella never finds out,” Jordan repeats, like it’s a pact. He grins at Virgil and Virgil grins right back, and for a second there Jordan feels like he’s sixteen again and it’s him and Virgil against the world. He doesn’t think it ever stopped feeling like that, but it just became more of a background noise than front and centre.

He got used to it. Assumed it’d always be there. 

They end up hanging out of Jordan’s bedroom window, elbows on the sill and shoving at each other because there’s not an awful lot of room. It’s a really nice feeling, actually, despite the dull ache in Jordan’s spine from being hunched over and his ribs hurting from Virgil’s sharp, bony elbows.

(He insists it was accidental, but Jordan isn’t quite convinced).

“Feels like it’s been ages since we’ve done this,” Jordan says, watching Virgil with the lighter. He’s got a joint hanging out of his mouth and he’s grinning around it like he can’t quite believe they’re fully grown adults but they’re still smoking weed out of Jordan’s bedroom window. 

He sparks up and takes a deep drag.

“It has been ages,” Virgil points out, taking another drag and then passing the joint to Jordan. His gaze is careful as he watches Jordan smoke, stretching his neck as far away from the window as he possibly can. It takes ages to get rid of the smell and he learnt that the hard way when he was a teenager. “Life’s been a bit – mental, these past few years. I mean, I’m getting married next month and it only feels like I met Stella yesterday.”

Jordan doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Still, he takes one last drag and passes the joint back to Virgil, whose gaze is flitting between him and the joint. Jordan could’ve sworn this was all for his sake, and he says as much to Virgil.

“You’ve done so much to be proud of since you met her,” Jordan says quietly, staring out across the city. If he looks to his left he can see the cafe in the distance, bold and painted brilliantly blue, standing out from the rest of the drab street. Just the sight of it makes him smile. “You bought The Collective, did it all up yourself. Opened it and not only that, you made it _successful_. You’re like – a pillar of the community. Everyone knows you and everyone loves you. Won all those local awards, drove away Costa when they wanted to open up two shops down, and yet…” 

“What?” Virgil asks. He’s been holding the joint away from his mouth while he watched Jordan speak and it’s gone out, so he rests it between his lips and sparks up again. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Jordan once. “Yet what?”

“You talk about it like it’s nothing,” Jordan says, shrugging. He doesn’t quite dare to meet Virgil’s eye so he stares intently at the cafe in the distance, until his eyes are watering and he’s barely blinking. “But you’ve done so much. _So_ much, and you barely even consider it an achievement. And I know that it’s because you don’t want me to feel bad, but it’s fine. I always knew you were destined for bigger and better things than me. Everybody could see it.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Virgil mutters. He takes a long, deep drag that’s more thoughtful than anything, following the line of Jordan’s gaze and then looking back at his face, passing the joint back over carefully. “It’s nothing to do with you, it’s just that – it’s my life. I don’t see anything special about it. I’m living it, and I’m happy, and that’s all I need. I don’t need awards and plaques lining the walls and to brag about it. I’m living my dream and I’m helping people along the way, and I’ve got you by my side, haven’t I? What more could I want?” 

The world is already feeling a little hazy but Jordan just keeps smoking, dipping his head and smiling unconvincingly. There’s a million things that Virgil could want that are far better than him, but if he says that, he’ll just be starting an argument. He was supposed to enjoy today, so.

“I mean it, alright? I’ve got everything I’ve ever wished for, plus a little extra,” Virgil says, curling an arm around Jordan’s shoulders. He hugs him tight against his side and even drops a chaste kiss to the crown of his head, and he doesn’t pull away like Jordan is expecting. “And I really wish you’d stop going on like you’ve done nothing with your life. I mean, look at you – you’re so incredibly talented that it hurts. You’ve got a steady job and a client base that absolutely worships you and the ground you walk on. I’ve seen how many times and how many different ways that your mum tried to drag you down, but look at you, Jordan! God, I wish you could see you the way that other people do.” 

Jordan tries not to lean into Virgil’s warmth, but it’s so hard. Everything smells like him and it’s overwhelming, but in the best way. He closes his eyes and takes it in, tries to commit it to memory so he can think back on this when Virgil has forgotten about him and he’s on his own.

“And The Collective wouldn’t be anything near what it is today without you,” Virgil carries on. The silence wasn’t an invitation to continue talking, but to be honest, Virgil has never needed an invitation. Not when it comes to Jordan, anyway. “You were the only person who stayed up ‘til four in the morning painting the walls. You were the one who told me that my colour scheme was ugly and then patiently taught me all about colour theory. You were the one who risked your life on that shitty ladder painting the sign above the door because I couldn’t afford to pay for it to be done properly, and you know what? It’s _perfect_. The whole place is perfect, because there’s little touches of you everywhere. Don’t you realise that I could’ve changed the sign by now if I wanted to? I could have changed it about four or five times, and people always ask me why I haven’t, and the answer is simple: because it’s your work. It’s your work, Jordan, and every morning when I open up and see all the brilliantly creative things that _you_ did, I realise that I wouldn’t want anything else. It makes me smile even when I’m having the shittest day of my life.” 

He takes the joint out of Jordan’s fingers and takes two last drags before flicking the butt of it away, and Jordan watches it fall to the pavement. He’s still mulling over Virgil’s words. “I just don’t –” He starts, but he’s cut off when Virgil slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Just shut up and take the compliment,” Virgil huffs, but it’s good natured. He simply grins as bright as the sun down at Jordan and squeezes his shoulder when the older man rolls his eyes. “You’re my best friend and that is never going to change, whether you want it to or not. I’m proud of you no matter what you do, so just – let me be proud. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Jordan concedes, but it’s reluctant. He wonders if Virgil ever gets sick of always being the one dishing out comfort. Not that –– Jordan never _asks_ for it, so. He just hopes it doesn’t feel too burdensome. And – and he really hopes that Virgil knows he’s ready to give it back, whenever he needs it. Jordan just hopes that he never, ever needs it.

“Now I am going to feed you because it is my job and Stella can probably hear your stomach rumbling all the way in Cambodia,” Virgil says, planting his hands firmly on Jordan’s shoulders and dragging him away from the window. He directs him to the bed and fusses with the pillows and the duvet until Jordan shoves him away, then grins triumphantly. “Get ready to have your mind blown, Jordan Henderson.”

“Why?” Jordan asks mildly. He can’t stop the smile that’s spreading across his face and the corners of Virgil’s eyes crinkle at the sight of it. “Are you ordering in from somewhere else?”

“Cheeky fucker,” Virgil mutters, but he’s grinning and he winks before he turns and heads out of the room. His voice still carries loud enough that Jordan can hear him crystal clear. “See if I ever cook you your favourite meal again!” 

Jordan stares down at his hands and smiles dumbly. Sometimes he can’t believe he’s living this life. Alright, maybe it’s not exactly what he wants – ideally, in his dreams, he and Virgil are… Well, you know – but it’s close enough. He has Virgil in his life. They’re close, they love each other (in different ways, admittedly), and they’re happy. That’s all he needs, really. Anything else would just be a bonus.

And honestly, it’s a miracle they’re even here at all. They both have their dream jobs, and against all odds, have made it to the stage in life where they’re _adults_ (albeit to varying degrees of success). They’re functioning in the real world, which, considering how they were both dragged up in broken homes and with a parent – or in Jordan’s fairly obvious case, two – is just… Inconceivable. Jordan didn’t think he’d ever get this far.

To be honest, he didn’t think he’d live to see past twenty two.

But he has and he’s here and he still has Virgil, and that’s enough. He’s twenty six years old and his best friend is making him some undoubtedly incredible food, and on Monday he’s going to go to work and meet with his favourite client. After work he’s going to go to the cafe for Virgil’s ridiculously good cheesy pasta, and then he’s going to go home with him, and he’s going to rinse and repeat.

It’s life. It’s his life, and he can’t complain about it. This is his best case scenario, really, the best he could ever hope for. When he was sixteen and being told to think about his career, the only thing he could imagine was instability, the flakiness of his mother and the apathy of his father. He thought that’s all he could ever achieve.

But he’s proved himself wrong, and that’s more than enough. It has to be, because it’s all that he’s got.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Virgil says, coming back into the bedroom. He’s got a big tray of food balanced on his hand – meat and cheese and bread and vegetables, all perfectly spiced and artfully arranged. Jordan hates to admit that he’s impressed. “I can hear you from the kitchen.”

“I’m fine,” Jordan says automatically, taking the tray so Virgil can slide under the duvet. He props himself up against the headboard with his shoulder pressed against Jordan’s and then smiles at the older man, taking the food back and resting it on his lap with an accomplished grin. “This looks good.” 

“Of course it does, I made it,” Virgil says. He presses his knee against Jordan’s playfully and the corners of his eyes crinkle even deeper. Jordan loves seeing Virgil smile. It suits him. “What were you thinking about?” 

“Nothing important,” Jordan says, although it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears. Virgil doesn’t push him on it though, just raises an eyebrow and offers him a piece of ciabatta, which Jordan takes gratefully. Bread is one of Virgil’s specialities – well, all things carbs, really – and it tastes as good as Jordan expects. Better, even, but that’s probably because he’s so high the world is a little fuzzy around the edges. “How come you broke your own rules, anyway? You promised yourself you wouldn’t even touch a joint after you and Stella made things official.”

“Some things are more important, Jordan,” Virgil says. He meets Jordan’s gaze head on and the honesty in his eyes makes the older man breathless, fingers tangling in the duvet that’s covering his thighs. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Virgil meant _he_ was the more important thing. “Besides – I don’t plan my entire life around her. She doesn’t dictate my actions.”

“What’s brought this on?” Jordan asks, frowning at the barely concealed fury in Virgil’s voice. Something isn’t right, and his heart starts pounding. He doesn’t know whether he’s scared or excited, and he hates himself for even entertaining the idea of the latter. “What’s happened, Virg? Have you two argued?”

“No,” Virgil says, but he sounds unsure. He stares up at the ceiling and blinks, not even flinching when Jordan curls a hand around his wrist. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You’re scaring me,” Jordan whispers, fingernails digging into the soft skin on the inside of Virgil’s wrist. He doesn’t even bat an eyelid – but he does turn his head so he meets Jordan’s gaze. He hates how upset Virgil looks. “Have I been planning this wedding for nothing?”

“No! No, of course– I mean– I don’t know, actually,” Virgil says. He sounds a little bit bewildered like he doesn’t quite understand it himself, and his eyebrows are knitted together. The frown on his face looks painful. “I just. She’s been offered that job full time out in Cambodia?” 

“Oh,” Jordan breathes. He uncurls his fingers from around Virgil’s wrist and lets his hands drop to his lap, staring down at them so intently his eyes water. He knows where this is going. He should have fucking guessed. “You’re moving out there, then.”

“What? No, of course not,” Virgil says suddenly, like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jordan knows that it’s bullshit. Virgil is probably just trying to let him down gently, but there’s no need. It’s just the way it goes by now – it’s pretty much scripted at this point. People leave, and there’s nothing Jordan can do to stop them, and then he’s left with massive holes decorating his insides. He doesn’t know if there’ll be anything left of him when Virgil goes. “She asked me to. Said I should start up a little cafe out there and we can build ourselves a house, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to move to Cambodia.” 

“Why not?” Jordan asks, wrinkling his nose. He can’t think of a single reason why Virgil would choose here over there. 

“Because I like my life here,” Virgil says like it’s obvious. He pops a piece of carrot in his mouth and chews thoughtfully, but Jordan knows he’s just trying to stop himself from spilling his every thought. He’s probably had this on his mind for hours, if not days, and god knows Virgil can’t keep a single thought to himself. “I have my mum and my brother and my sister. I have the cafe and the community around it. I have all my regular customers that I’ve gotten to know so well they’ve become friends. I have Gini and Ki-jana. I won’t have any of that in Cambodia. And –– I have _you_. I won’t have you in Cambodia, and I don’t know if I could live without you.”

“You could,” Jordan says, nodding confidently. He doesn’t even know how Virgil thinks he’s important enough to become a reason to not move to a different country. If he was in Virgil’s shoes, Jordan’s existence would be the last thing on his mind. 

“Well, I don’t want to find out,” Virgil counters, and that’s the end of it. He smiles when Jordan snatches a slice of salami off the tray and doesn’t even flinch when the older man rests his head on his shoulder. Instead, he rests his cheek on the top of Jordan’s head. It’s nice. Comfortable. “I don’t want new friends or a new cafe or a new adventure out there. I want my friends and my cafe and my comfortable little life that doesn’t have any drama, no matter how boring Stella thinks that is. I’m not moving to Cambodia, and that’s the end of it.”

“Have you told her?” Jordan asks quietly, picking more food up. He watches the movement of Virgil’s hand as he curls it into the duvet and brushes the tip of his index finger over the bumps of his knuckles, breathing out slowly when Virgil’s muscles relax. He can’t help but smile when Virgil links their pinky fingers together, and that’s it. They stay like that, hands resting on Virgil’s thigh.

Things could be so, so different.

“No,” Virgil says, voice flat. He eats some food and Jordan knows that it’s a distraction technique, but it’s not going to work this time. If Virgil thinks he can make Jordan talk when he doesn’t want to, then Jordan is going to make him talk too. “I don’t know what to say to her, Jord. God, it really pissed me off when she said it. Like it was _obvious_. Like I’m the only one that has to make sacrifices in this relationship. Everyone expects me to bend to their will, but what if I don’t want to? What if I want to do what’s best for me for once? Everybody always wants something, there’s always a reason lurking behind their false niceties.”

“I think that you both knew you’d have to compromise somewhere down the line. I mean, you have different priorities and you always have. Even you must see that,” Jordan says. He’s probably erring on the side of being a little too truthful, but it’s difficult to actually think about what he’s saying through the green haze. “But you’re both adults and you’re both good people, so. If you’re meant to be together, it’ll work out. And you are, aren’t you? You are meant to be together. That speaks volumes.”

Virgil stays silent and Jordan swallows, staring at the wall next to him. He doesn’t even need to convince himself that it’s true, because he saw it written all over the pair of them the first time he actually sat down and had dinner with Stella. She’s Virgil’s type to the detail, and they compliment each other.

They’re soulmates, and that’s alright. Jordan can live with that. Not that he has a choice in the matter – he learnt that a long time ago. He’s fine by himself, because he knows that no other hypothetical relationship would ever live up to what he could have with Virgil.

It’s fine. It’s all fucking fine.

“Except you,” Virgil says quietly, shaking Jordan out of his thoughts. He curls his finger tighter around Jordan’s and twists his head to plant a soft kiss in Jordan’s hair. “You never want anything from me. You know who I am, and you don’t expect anything more. You’re already pretty incredible, but that’s what makes you special. You just want _me_.”

There’s more truth in that than Jordan really wants to admit, but he smiles anyway and lets his eyes slip shut briefly. It’s easier to deal with when there aren’t too many things clouding up his senses. “Shut up and taste your wedding food,” he says, and that’s the end of it.

.

He wakes up to an empty bed. The sheets are still warm but Virgil is nowhere to be seen, and he has to ride through the initial flash of panic that courses through his body. He’s mostly sober now, but still can’t quite control his intrinsic reactions.

He sits up and rubs his eyes to try and ease some of the tiredness, but it doesn’t quite work. Still, he hears the faint sound of Virgil’s voice, getting closer and closer until it levels out. Sounds like he’s in the kitchen, and Jordan pulls the sleeves of his (Virgil’s) hoodie over his fingers as he goes to investigate.

“I know, Jod,” Virgil says, voice soft. It takes Jordan a moment to realise that that’s the tone of voice he uses when he’s talking about or to or in front of or generally around Jordan. He feels as special as Virgil makes him out to be. “It was really fucking shitty. But we’re okay. He slept last night and we’ve eaten and he’s sleeping now, and I’m going to keep an eye on him. I promise you, the minute he gives me any sign that he’s not okay, I’ll let you know. Alright?”

There’s a pause where Jody replies and then Virgil barks out a sharp laugh, sweet and kind. Jordan loves the sound of it, drawn to him, and he steps into the doorframe just so he can see the loose line of Virgil’s shoulders and the way the soft skin at the back of his neck is flushed. It’s a nice sight, one that Jordan wouldn’t mind waking up to more often, but he shakes that thought away as soon as it comes.

“No, I am not using this as an excuse to get high,” Virgil says, and Jordan can hear him rolling his eyes even if he can’t see it. He steps into the kitchen and curls his fingers around the back of Virgil’s neck just to feel how warm the skin is, and can’t help but smile when Virgil looks up at him, all soft around the eyes. “I am not taking advantage of your brother, Jody.”

“Are you talking about me?” Jordan asks mildly. It’s a pretty pointless question, but he feels like he needs to insert himself into the conversation. Virgil curls an arm around his waist and squeezes tight and then pulls back, quick as a flash. “Let me talk to her, you know she won’t leave us alone until she’s heard my voice.”

“I heard that!” Jody says, loud and slightly screeching as Virgil hands his phone over. He stands and combs his fingers through Jordan’s hair before going to flick the kettle on, smiling as he watches Jordan drop into the seat he just vacated. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. If I’d have known she was coming to see you, I would’ve warned you. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jordan says, feeling a little self conscious. He knows it’s ridiculous because the two people that are listening to him right now are the only two people that know him as well as he knows himself (or in Virgil’s case, better), but he hates it. He hates being the centre of attention. He hates feeling eyes on him and knowing that people are talking about him. He hates pity and sympathy and all of that, because god knows there are people more deserving of it than _him_. “How did you even find out? Did Virgil tell you?”

“No, he doesn’t tell me anything about you unless you give him permission first. He’s boring,” Jody says, huffing slightly at the end. It might piss Jody off but it makes Jordan feel all warm inside, heart growing ten times its normal size. He looks over at Virgil who’s making coffee without even asking. Because he knows. Because he knows _Jordan_. “I tried to call you last night but your phone was off. Virgil didn’t pick up either, so I rang mum and asked her if she’d seen you, and she told me everything.”

“Bet she missed out all the bits that make her look bad, though,” Jordan mutters, accepting the mug when Virgil hands it over. He takes a long sip and watches the younger man jump until he’s sitting on the counter, long legs crossed underneath his body and mug cradled in his hands. He’s watching Jordan right back, and he smiles when they accidentally make eye contact. 

“Of course she did, but I know her as well as you do,” Jody says, and that makes Jordan feel better already. Their mother will always twist things to make herself look like a victim, and every time it happens, Jordan is terrified that Jody won’t believe his version of events – won’t believe the _truth_. He’s already lost enough of his family. He doesn’t know what he’d do without his baby sister. “What happened, Jordan? What did she do?”

“It’s my fault – I let her in without checking who it was,” Jordan says, hanging his head. Virgil stretches one long leg across the cramped kitchen to kick Jordan in the thigh and frowns when he looks up, shaking his head. Jordan knows what he’s trying to say: _it’s not your fault_. Except that it is, and he knows it. “She just started saying all this – stuff. About me being the reason dad left, about me messing everything up, and I just snapped. I shouted at her.”

“Anyone would do the same, Jordan,” Jody says soothingly. He can imagine the look on her face and he hates it, so he stares intently at a grain of wood in the table until his eyes are burning and tears are blurring his vision. “She backed you into a corner, so anyone would snap.”

“She wouldn’t hit anyone else though,” Jordan counters, smiling numbly down at his hands. He hears the sharp intake of breath Virgil takes at the words, and thinks it’s ridiculous. He was there, after all. He saw it all in its technicolour glory.

“Shit,” Jody breathes. The whole tone of the conversation changes and Jordan regrets telling her immediately. It’s – it’s difficult, really. Jody knows what their mother is like but sometimes Jordan thinks that she doesn’t really believe it, but it’s only because she’s never seen it. Jody wasn’t the problem child like Jordan was. Jody was absolutely doted on by both their mum and dad, and Jordan doesn’t quite know how he drew the short straw. “She definitely left that part out.”

“Listen, can you just – not tell her that you know?” Jordan asks quietly. He glances up and the frown on Virgil’s face has deepened, but it softens into something kind when he realises what Jordan is about to do. Virgil could read him like a book – he always has. “I’m done with them, Jod. I can’t put myself through it anymore, so I’m done. I’ve always deserved better than the scraps they’ve given me anyway.”

“Jordan,” Jody says quietly. She sounds serious, properly serious, and Jordan can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Virgil can sense the shift in atmosphere and he puts his mug down, sliding off the counter and padding towards Jordan so he can brush his fingers through his hair. It’s more comforting than Jordan wants to admit. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” 

“I feel like I’ve thought about nothing else for the last decade,” Jordan admits. He hangs his head and Virgil’s fingers slide down to the back of his neck, tracing sweet patterns that make him shudder out a contented sigh.

“Okay. Okay,” Jody says firmly. She blows out a deep breath like she’s been holding it in for the past twenty minutes. Jordan feels so bad for laying this all on his little sister, but she’s the one who called, so. He reasons with himself that it isn’t his problem if she initiated it. “If you’re sure, then I’ll support you. One hundred percent.” 

“Thank you,” Jordan whispers. He closes his eyes but a stray tear falls down his cheek anyway, and he tries to be subtle when he wipes it away but Virgil must notice, because his grip on the back of Jordan’s neck tightens briefly before he lets go completely. The ghost of its warmth is still there though, and that’s enough. “That means the world to me.” 

“I’ve always got your back, Jord,” Jody says. Her voice is soft and kind, and it hits Jordan like a tonne of bricks how much he misses her. He needs to make plans with her soon, invite her round for dinner. Maybe Virgil will come – maybe he’ll even cook. “I’ll let you get on, alright? Tell Virgil I said thank you. Goodbye, Jordan, I’ll speak to you soon, yeah? Love you both!”

“Love you too,” Jordan whispers. Jody stays on the line just long enough to hear his reply and then it goes dead, so Jordan hands Virgil’s phone back. He feels a little bit better after that. At least one member of his family still gives a shit.

There’s an expectant silence while Jordan tries to process what just happens but Virgil breaks it by pulling a chair out and sitting opposite Jordan, elbows on the table while he stares at him with raised eyebrows.

“Do you speak to my sister a lot about me?” Jordan asks. He only half means it – he’s mostly saying it just to watch the way Virgil’s cheeks flush a lovely pink colour, like he’s embarrassed that he’s just been caught. Jordan smiles, and Virgil shakes his head disbelievingly but he’s smiling too so it’s not that convincing.

“Sometimes,” Virgil says, not at all defensive. He stretches his legs out under the table and rests his feet in Jordan’s lap, humming happily when the older man strokes his thumb across the hard points of his ankle. “You always say that we’re the two people who know you best in the world, and we both worry about you a lot. We talk mostly to please ourselves, you know, so we know you’re alright and we can carry on like normal. It’s not all about you.”

“Well, it’s good to know that Liz successfully managed to raise one child without fucking them up, isn’t it?” Jordan says absently, scratching his thumb across Virgil’s skin. “A fifty fifty success rate isn’t that bad.”

“You’re not fucked up,” Virgil says quickly, firmly. The worst thing is that he sounds like he believes it.

“If I’m your baseline for not fucked up, then you must have some pretty low standards,” Jordan says with a snort. He can’t help but laugh, really. Virgil has so much faith in him that at this point, it’s just ironic. How he hasn’t learnt his lesson by now is anyone’s guess. 

“I mean it, you’re not,” Virgil says. He pulls his legs back so he can sit up and lean further across the table, taking Jordan’s hand and stroking his thumb across the back of his knuckles. Jordan is almost fascinated by the sight. “I mean, she definitely did a number on you, but I think you turned out pretty well balanced, all things considered. Everything you are today – you did it all by yourself. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“If you say so,” Jordan says, although it’s mostly for an easy life. He loves Virgil and values everything he has to say, but honestly, there comes a point where even the smartest of people are wrong. This is one of those times, and Jordan doesn’t have the energy to disagree with him.

That’s alright. He knows that his own worth differs to how Virgil values him, and he accepted that a long time ago. As long as he knows the truth, he can’t be disillusioned.

.

Jordan digs in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, underneath all the paperwork and out of date condoms. He’s pretty sure there’s an ashtray down here but he hasn’t used it since he was eighteen and didn’t care if his room stunk. God knows he needs it now.

He finds it and pulls it out triumphantly, tossing it onto Virgil’s lap. He doesn’t look impressed with it, one eyebrow raised as he stares down at it and then up at Jordan.

“I thought you didn’t want to smoke in your room?” He asks, but it’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t really care. He swipes a joint off the bedside table over his side and lights up, grinning at Jordan menacingly. Jordan would regret his decision if it wasn’t for the fact Virgil van Dijk was in his bed.

“Think I’m too high to care,” Jordan admits, holding his hand out for the joint. Virgil passes it over and Jordan stretches his legs out, tangling them with Virgil’s. It feels nice; bare skin brushing and the coarseness of hair against Jordan’s shins. Virgil doesn’t even bat an eyelid. It’s just –– normal. “Besides, when it stinks tomorrow and I’m sober enough to regret it, I’ll just blame you. You love me too much to even try and deny it.”

Virgil stays silent for a moment, considering Jordan’s words, but there’s a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips like he can’t quite hide it. He moves his right leg so that it’s resting on top of Jordan’s shins and then turns his head to look at the older man head on. “You’re right,” he murmurs, knocking his knuckles against Jordan’s. “As much as I wish I could deny it –– you’re right. I’d let you get away with murder.” 

“It’s good to be self aware,” Jordan says, nodding all serious like, but it only takes Virgil reaching over to pinch his hip to send him into fits of giggles. He hands the joint back so he doesn’t burn anything and watches the flutter of Virgil’s eyelashes carefully. It’s probably a bit weird, but sometimes Jordan feels like he could watch him all day.

They lapse into silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s never been awkward between them in all the years they’ve known each other, and Virgil just smiles when Jordan slides his legs up to drape across Virgil’s thighs. The thumb of his free hand brushes through the dusky hairs on Jordan’s knee and it makes Jordan’s skin tingle, a shiver travelling down the length of his spine. Thankfully, Virgil doesn’t seem to notice.

“I still can’t believe you quit smoking up, you know,” Jordan says. Virgil rolls his head towards Jordan and raises his eyebrows in question, the tips of his fingers drumming over his shin. “Like – you’re Dutch. It’s in your blood. And it was your down time for years, wasn’t it? Some of your most famous dishes were born from us having the munchies! I was just really surprised when you gave it all up for a girlfriend.” 

“Well, she’s not just a girlfriend now, so it was a good idea,” Virgil says, smirking a little bit. His face sets back into neutral and he blinks heavily, definitely high again by now. “But you know she’s not like us. She’s laid back, yeah, but she wasn’t brought up like we were. Her dad has money, he’s running for the local Tory seat this year. She went to _private school_ , for fucks sake, Jordan. She’s a middle class kid and she’s also training to be a doctor, and she doesn’t fuck with – any of this. She definitely wouldn’t be happy about it if she found out if I do.” 

“God, she’d have a heart attack if she knew some of the stuff we got up to,” Jordan says, letting out a sharp laugh. He cringes thinking about it, to be honest – being a teenager and in a bad place, and letting all of that go by drinking in one of their friends’ messy bedroom. “Do you remember that leaving party Jessica Adams had after prom?”

“Oh, god,” Virgil groans, pressing his palm to his forehead. He shakes his head and curls the fingers of his other hand around Jordan’s knee while the memories come back to him, and then he shakes his head again. “I was so drunk I couldn’t see by like, nine.”

“That’s only because you’re a lightweight,” Jordan says, snatching the joint back. He doesn’t make a habit of this – mostly because Virgil won’t share with him anymore and he’s never been one to get high alone – but god knows he needed it. After yesterday, he really fucking needed it. “I had to look after you all the time.”

“I am _not_ ,” Virgil says defiantly. He flicks Jordan’s knee but rubs the red skin soothingly straight after. “And I’d say that looking after me is a bit of a loose interpretation. You used to fuck off for hours at a time and only come back when you were ready to leave.”

Jordan shrugs. It’s true, but both him and Virgil know why, and it’s something that makes him feel uncomfortable now. “Yeah, well,” he says, smiling slightly when Virgil’s thumb rubs over the hardest point of his knee. “You had plenty of people lining up to babysit you, didn’t you? You were the biggest heart throb in the school.” 

“Only cared about spending time with you, though,” Virgil says, like he’s reminding Jordan. He could never forget, to be honest. It always made him feel so incredibly special, and he always knew that he never deserved it. “God – do you remember that time at Sam Johnston’s when I tried to find you? I mean, I did find you, but I walked into the bathroom and you were –”

He cuts himself off with a barely hidden snicker, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes look slightly darker.

“Sucking Jamie Smith’s dick, yes, I remember,” Jordan says, rolling his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and wills the back of his neck to stop burning, but it doesn’t seem to want to listen to him. His embarrassment is written all over his face, even a full decade later.

“I’m not going to lie, though,” Virgil says. One corner of his mouth is lifted into a smirk and the tips of his fingers trail round to the back of Jordan’s knee, brushing lightly over the soft skin there. Jordan hates the way it makes all the blood in his body rush south. “I had some crazy dreams after that. Like – _dreams_ dreams.” 

“Dreams like wet dreams?” Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow. His heart is hammering so hard against his ribcage that he’s really surprised Virgil can’t hear it, and his mouth is so dry it hurts to swallow. He shifts, moves so he’s lying on his front – just in case. Just in fucking case. It’s probably the safest option right now.

“Yes, but I was sixteen and confused!” Virgil says, cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red. He ducks his head but he’s grinning, and he punches Jordan in the ribs so light he barely feels the touch. It’s more a graze of his knuckles. “I thought I’d imagined it at first, you know. I was so drunk I could barely walk, so I thought I’d just made it up in my head, but those dreams… They were so vivid that I knew it had to be real.”

“Jesus, Virgil. I can’t believe you never told me this,” Jordan breathes, pressing his face into the pillow until he feels the redness of his cheeks subsiding a little bit. He honestly could have lived his entire life without Virgil bringing this up again. It stirs so many feelings inside him. “Were you the dick suckee or the dick sucker?”

Virgil barks out a short, sharp laugh like he can’t quite believe Jordan just asked that, and then falls silent while he considers his answer. “Suckee,” he admits quietly, shifting so he’s laying flat as well. He’s looking at Jordan, grin pulling the corners of his mouth up, like it’s all one big joke to him. 

Jordan isn’t laughing. 

“Probably would have sucked your dick if you asked me,” Jordan says, resting his cheek on his hand. There’s something about being high that makes him horribly truthful, and he doesn’t know how to turn it off. To be even more honest –– he’d probably still suck Virgil’s dick now, if he asked. There isn’t a lot that Jordan can’t imagine himself doing for Virgil if he asked. It’s probably quite unhealthy. “I was a bit of a slut back then.”

“No you weren’t. You were in a bad place and sex gave you the validation you craved,” Virgil says, reaching over to tuck a strand of Jordan’s hair behind his ear. This is something they’ve talked about a million times, ever since Jordan pulled away and Virgil refused to leave until he’d explained what was going on. By this point, Virgil has actually managed to convince him that it wasn’t actually Jordan’s fault. He’s so kind, so understanding, that it makes something hurt deep in Jordan’s chest. He’s still not quite sure how he managed to win the best friend lottery. “I don’t know if you remember this, but once, when you were really, really drunk, you made me promise to turn you down if you ever tried it on with me. You said you didn’t want to lose our friendship over some meaningless sex. You said that I meant too much for that.” 

“And did I?” Jordan asks. He doesn’t remember that, to be honest, but he’s glad that he said it. It’s probably the most meaningful thing he’s ever said. “Did I ever try it on with you?” 

“No,” Virgil says. He smiles reassuringly and cards his fingers through Jordan’s hair, the movement so incredibly comforting. He must know how a gesture as simple as that makes Jordan feel, but he never lets on. From the outside, one would assume that it was for either of their sakes. They both know that it’s just for Jordan, though. “I’m sure resisting that temptation must have been _very_ hard, but resist it you did.” 

“Shut up,” Jordan says, but he’s laughing and his punch is incredibly gentle on Virgil’s chest. Honestly, he didn’t really think much about how he’d feel in the days after his mother’s little outburst at the time, but he never quite expected it to be like this. Virgil makes him feel free, light and happy. There isn’t another person in the world that can do this to him. “You’re not that special.”

Lie. A big, bold faced lie.

“Guess you won’t want your birthday present then,” Virgil says, but he’s smirking delightedly. There’s absolutely no way he won’t give Jordan the gift, because he looks way too excited about it. “I forgot all about it with all the fuss yesterday, but I suppose I can just – take it back…” 

“I don’t think so,” Jordan says. He rolls his eyes and kicks out at Virgil’s thigh, which earns him a pinch to the side, but he’s too high to retaliate properly. He turns onto his side and settles down, one hand pillowed under his cheek while the other rests in the few inches of space between them on the bed. His fingers twitch like they want to reach out and touch, but he manages to restrain himself. “After everything I’ve been through, I _deserve_ a present. In fact, I demand it.”

“Okay, bossy,” Virgil says. He’s acting like he hates it but he gets out of bed without a second thought. Jordan almost regrets it because the mattress is cold without him, but then as soon as he’s gone he’s back, with the gift tucked under his arm. Jordan doesn’t quite know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t anything even half as big as this. “Here.” 

He drags himself until he’s sitting upright and frowns questioningly when Virgil sets the wrapped present on his lap, waiting until he’s settled on the bed with his legs crossed under him. He still has no idea what it could be, to be honest, and he takes a moment to run his palms over the shiny paper before Virgil gives him a nudge to hurry him up, so he tucks his finger under the seam of the wrapping paper and unsticks it carefully. 

“Oh,” he breathes, a little bit in awe as he discards the paper to the side. It’s a Sunderland AFC shirt, signed and framed with a certificate of authentication underneath it and everything. It looks amazing. It looks expensive, really, and – ”God, Virgil. You shouldn’t have.” 

“I wanted to,” Virgil shrugs, smiling at Jordan’s reaction. He takes Jordan’s hand when he holds it out palm up and squeezes gently, not once taking his eyes off of the older man’s face. He knows he doesn’t deserve it but he loves it, so for once, he’s not going to argue about it. “You’re amazing, J. You’ve been planning my wedding and working and helping out at the cafe and putting up with me all at the same time, so I wanted to get you something nice. Something I knew you wouldn’t buy for yourself. Something that would be special to you.” 

There’s a conveniently empty hook on the wall above his bed and he rises to his knees on the mattress to hang the shirt up, taking his time to make sure it’s even. Then, when it’s up, he sits back to admire it, reaching out and taking Virgil’s hand again. 

“It is special, Virgil,” he says, hating the way his voice has choked up. This is possibly the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever got him, and it feels even better just knowing that Virgil really does know him that well. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” 

Virgil laughs when Jordan pretty much tackles him into a hug, but he wraps his arms around the older man’s back and holds him just as tight, fingers curling into his own hoodie that’s still hanging loosely off of Jordan’s frame. “It’s not a problem. Not for you,” he whispers.

His words are so meaningful that it hurts.

.

Jordan’s working from home today, so of course, that means he’s working from the cafe. It’s a little bit weird sitting in a place that’s got his artwork all over the walls, but it’s a place that’s also got Virgil and he's happy to talk all the time, and it’s a place that’s got Gini’s incredible coffee (and his sense of humour, of course. Jordan values him as a person, and not just for his coffee).

He settles himself on the little table in the corner, the one that only he really sits at. Most of the regulars know this as well by now, so even when it’s busy, they leave it clear – but it’s a slow morning today, so he has his pick of seats. He still chooses _his_ seat, though. 

It’s perfect, really. There’s a window next to him so he can watch all the people that go by, but he can still see Gini at the counter, doing a crossword. If he looks slightly to the left of Gini’s head – not far, not far at all – he can see into the kitchen, straight into the one area of the workstation that Virgil prefers. He’s always there, rolling out pasta or cutting up vegetables, and sometimes he looks up and meets Jordan’s gaze and winks (badly, although Jordan just finds it cute).

It’s perfect, and it’s _his_. 

He’s never had a space like this to call his own. Alright, granted it’s not much and it’s not really his own, but it’s enough. It’s just like Virgil said the other day –– he helped build this cafe. Not the foundations, not the physical building, but everything else inside it. The paint on the walls and the sanded down chairs. The spirit of the place, the sense of community of all the customers. Jordan helped build that, and that’s what makes it his.

He gets there later than Virgil, because even though they’re both going to the same place, he’s not the one that has to turn up at the crack of dawn just to chop some carrots or whatever his morning preparation is. When Virgil comes into his room and passes a hand through his hair, gives him a peck on the cheek and says he’s leaving, he’s privileged enough that he gets to roll back over and go back to sleep for an hour after.

Virgil, of course, loves to moan about it. It’s not even that late – a few minutes past nine, and the cafe has only been open an hour. The morning rush is over and now it’s nice and peaceful, so. Jordan has timed it perfectly, because it’s exactly what he’d planned for. He knows this place like the back of his hand. 

Gini isn’t at the counter when he steps through the door, and Virgil is nowhere to be seen either. It’s not really a surprise, though – those two are serial gossipers so they’re probably in the back, subjecting Ki-jana to their awful brand of banter – so Jordan just sets his bag on his favourite table and heads to the counter, rapping his knuckles against the wood playfully.

“Service!” He calls, leaning across and resting his chin on his hands. It’s barely half a minute before Gini comes out of the kitchen, skidding to a stop just before he slams into the counter. “God, they’re really letting the standards slip around here.”

“Oh, it’s only you,” Gini says, eyeing Jordan up and down. He’s grinning though, flushed from the heat of the kitchen and probably from laughing at whatever jokes Virgil has been cracking for the last fifteen minutes. It’s really difficult to hold anything against someone who smiles like that. “I thought it might actually be someone important.” 

“I am important!” Jordan insists. He’s pouting and it makes Gini grin even wider, but the point still stands. As if on cue, Virgil appears from the kitchen with red cheeks and a strand of hair falling over his forehead, looking a little bit more than stressed. “Tell him, Virgil. Tell him I’m important!”

“Jordan is very, very important,” Virgil says, reaching over and nudging Jordan’s cheek with his knuckles. He’s smiling; the lovely kind where his cheeks are rounded and the lines around his eyes are deep, and it’s written all over his face. That smile is the most beautiful thing that Jordan has ever seen. “And important boys need important coffee, don’t they? Got to grow big and strong and even more important.” 

Jordan knows that Virgil is mocking him but he doesn’t even care, not when there are two identical dimples making dents in Virgil’s cheeks. “Important boys do need coffee,” he agrees, nodding pathetically. Virgil laughs, passing a hand through his hair and scratching his scalp. The sensation sends shivers down Jordan’s spine. “Important boys have lots of important work to do today, so they need lots of coffee.”

“First one’s on the house,” Virgil says, raising his eyebrows. They both know all of them will be on the house, because Virgil has never, ever taken any money off of Jordan for anything he’s ordered at the cafe. Insists on paying him for the art he commissions, and doesn’t charge him for food. That’s just the type of generous person he is. “Caramel latte for my most important boy?” 

“Yes, please,” Jordan says, smiling up at Virgil. There’s a silence for a moment, loaded but still light as a feather, where they just smile at each other, but Gini breaks it without even realising.

To be honest, Jordan isn’t even sure if Virgil has realised that they’re having a moment.

“Don’t you have that massive lunch order booked in, Virg?” Gini asks, raising his eyebrows. Jordan turns his head to look at him and he notices out of the corner of his eye that Virgil does the same, and Gini seems a little intimidated under the weight of both of their gazes. “You just spent the last half an hour complaining about how much pasta you’re going to have to make. I’ll make Jordan’s coffee.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Virgil says. He all but pushes Gini out of the way and heads over to the coffee machine, pulling out a latte mug and foaming the milk. He hates making coffee and doesn’t do it even for himself, but for some reason always ends up making Jordan’s. He just always seems to be –– there. “I’m ahead of schedule and I need ten minutes out of the kitchen anyway.” 

“If you say so,” Gini says, turning that judgemental eye on Virgil now. Virgil is so used to it that at this point, he doesn’t even notice. Jordan does, though. It’s a little bit weird. “Guess I’ll just – not do my job.”

“You’re getting paid either way, so I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Virgil says, tutting slightly. He fusses about with Jordan’s coffee and then turns around, carrying the mug from the machine to Jordan carefully. He places it on the counter and steps back, looking ever so proud of himself. Jordan thinks it’s sweet. “Here you go. One latte for my special boy.”

“Wasn’t it important?” Gini asks, but neither of them pay him any attention.

Jordan wraps his hands around the mug and smiles down at it, trying to will his blush away. There’s a love heart on the top, made in milk like all the baristas on Instagram do, and it makes Jordan’s chest feel tight. Alright, granted – it’s not perfect like the baristas on Instagram, but that just makes it even more unmistakably _Virgil_. He has to remind himself that it means nothing, not when it comes from Virgil. If he doesn’t remind himself, his imagination will just run away with itself.

“I didn’t even know you could do latte art,” Jordan confesses quietly, glancing up at Virgil from beneath his eyelashes. Virgil is watching him with a grin like he’s memorising every single detail – like Jordan is the only thing that exists. 

“Well, when I’d just opened up and was too skint to hire somebody, I made all the coffee,” Virgil says, tapping his fingers on the counter. He’s still smiling, but it’s muted like he’s trying to hold it back. The beauty of it shines through on his face anyway. “So I had to learn how to do latte art. I hated it – you know how I feel about making coffee – but I had to, and I’ve not done it for years, so. It’s a little bit shit, I’m sorry.” 

“No!” Jordan breathes quickly. He reaches across the table and curls his fingers around Virgil’s wrist, squeezing tightly before pulling back and looking down at the coffee again. “No, it’s not shit. It’s perfect, Virgil. Thank you for my love heart coffee.” 

“Only the best for my special boy,” Virgil says with a wink. He glances up at the clock and lets out a huff, hesitating slightly before sighing deeply. “Right, I’m really pushing it now. I’d better get back in the kitchen and make a head start. I have a feeling this lunch booking isn’t going to be an easy one.” 

“Alright,” Jordan says, curling his hands around his mug. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got loads to do, so I’ll set up in the corner and get on with it.” 

“You’re so self sufficient – like a cat. That must be the reason I keep you around,” Virgil says. He’s grinning, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen like he doesn’t want to leave, but Gini looks exasperated next to him and he rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t you say you were going to make a head start?” Gini says, raising one sharp eyebrow at Virgil. He’s tiny but still quite intimidating to be honest, and Jordan grins, hiding his mouth behind his hand. It’s easy to find it funny when he’s not the one Gini is pissed off with. “Hurry up and do it, then. You’ll never get anything done if you’re just standing here messing about with your little best friend.”

“No need to bring me into it,” Jordan grumbles. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Yes, there is. You’re distracting him,” Gini says matter-of-factly. He stands between them so that Jordan can’t see Virgil properly, only his eyes and the top of his head, but it doesn’t really make a difference. He knows that Virgil is pulling his tongue out at Gini, and Gini probably knows it too, but he’s kind enough to ignore it. “Go sit at your table and get working. You don’t want to let your clients down.” 

“Didn’t know you hired the fun gestapo,” Jordan mutters under his breath, but he sends one last sad glance at Virgil and picks up his mug. Gini is right, as much as he hates it – he does have an awful lot of work to get through, and it’s hard to do it when he’s meeting Virgil’s playful gaze every ten seconds. That’s the exact reason he’s behind with this project anyway.

He sits down and gets his laptop out, checking his emails before he starts. There’s a few that are just about nothing, jokey little comments from his colleagues and a new brief from his boss, so he sends him back a confirmation and deletes the others. That’s just about all the paperwork he can be bothered to do, so he logs out and opens up Photoshop, scrolling through his recently opened files before he finds the one he’s looking for.

He’s barely started before Gini sits down opposite him, sliding a fresh cup of coffee over with a smile. Jordan looks up briefly and nods his thanks, going back to his work, but Gini doesn’t get up and walk away. Instead, he rests his elbows on the table and watches Jordan intently, simply smiling even wider when he looks up properly.

“Can I help you?” Jordan asks, swapping his empty mug out for the new one and taking a sip. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Gini, not even when he shuffles his seat around so he can see Jordan’s laptop. It’s more than a little off putting.

“Just bored,” Gini says, leaning back in the chair. He looks at Jordan's work – which isn’t a lot right now, because most of it is placeholders the company’s content – and nods approvingly, even though he definitely doesn’t have a clue what he’s looking for. His speciality is coffee, not graphic design. “What are you doing?” 

“It’s nothing special, really,” Jordan says dismissively, but Gini raises an eyebrow in disbelief. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s geeking out about this project. He definitely, one hundred percent is, but he’s keeping that to himself (and to Virgil, when he first got the brief and couldn’t quite believe it). “Okay, maybe it is. I don’t know, it’s just – it’s for a magazine. They’re fairly big in the music industry, lots of loyal readers, and their designer just quit. It’s the kind of niche magazine that loves at least a full page illustration for every article, so it’s a lot of work, but I’m just honoured they even considered me.” 

“Why wouldn’t they consider you? You’re great at what you do,” Gini says. He makes it sound like it’s obvious, but really, it isn’t. Jordan is average at what he does, and there are thousands of people in this city alone that are just as good as him, if not better. “So are you doing their design full time now?” 

“Not at the minute, no,” Jordan says, opening InDesign to show Gini the layouts he’s working on. He flicks through the booklet, even the dozen or so pages he’s got left to complete, and Gini whistles lowly when he realises how much work Jordan has left. “They asked me to do this month, like a trial run. Don’t get me wrong – if I thought it wasn’t going anywhere, I wouldn’t have taken it on, because it’s so much work, but I’ve pretty much got the job, so. I just want to show them what I’m capable of.”

“I think you’re capable of just about anything,” Gini says, smiling at Jordan. He claps a supportive hand on his shoulder and Jordan goes to deny it, cheeks feeling a bit hot, but then Gini changes the subject quickly. “How’s living with Virgil, then? Is he as annoying as he is when he’s bossing everyone about in the kitchen?”

"He's great to live with," Jordan admits. He glances up, in the direction of the kitchen, and Virgil meets his gaze, sticking his tongue out playfully. He smiles on instinct, flipping Virgil the bird, and only catches a second of his mock outraged face before he looks away. "I mean, I feel like all I do is wash his clothes and he always leaves his wet towels on the bathroom floor, but his food is much, much better than anything I could ever make. The biggest downside is the wedding planning - it takes up so much of my time."

“That’s not the only reason you don’t like planning his wedding, is it?” Gini asks. His voice is incredibly soft but also knowing, and Jordan can feel the back of his neck heat up. There’s a denial on the tip of his tongue, but Gini can sense it and he holds his hands out palm up. “I mean, I’m not judging you. I promise.”

“I know you’re not judging me,” Jordan says. He snaps his laptop closed and ignores the quizzical look that Virgil sends him. He must’ve heard their voices, so he lowers his voice to a quiet hiss. “Because there’s nothing _to_ judge.” 

“Jordan, you don’t have to lie to me,” Gini says. He sounds so calm, so placating that it makes Jordan feel sick, and he flinches away when Gini places a hand on top of his. “I know that you have feelings for him, okay? I’ve known that since the day I met you, and you don’t have to pretend anymore. Not in front of me.”

“Gini, I don’t have feelings for him, I swear,” Jordan says. His breathing is starting to get a little faster and it feels like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, tears of desperation pricking at the corners of his eyes. He can’t make a scene. He can’t let Virgil notice that something is wrong, because then he’ll ask how he got into this state and Jordan will have to explain everything. “I don’t– I don’t!”

“You love him,” Gini says. He takes Jordan’s hand and doesn’t let go when he tries to pull back. Jordan finally looks up at his face and sees the sympathy written all over it, the sad slant of his eyebrows and the concern in his eyes. There is no way he can deny this anymore. “He’s your best friend but you love him, and nobody knows, do they?” 

“No,” Jordan finally admits, pressing the back of his other hand to his mouth. The tears have started to blur his vision now but he forces them back, swallowing the lump in his throat and forcing his breathing into an even pattern. “I’ve never told anyone. I don’t want to lose him.” 

“You’re planning his wedding, Jordan,” Gini breathes. He stares at a spot over Jordan’s shoulder like he’s trying to process it and then meets Jordan’s eyes again, squeezing his hand carefully. “Doesn’t it hurt?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t– I don’t even know,” Jordan says, choking out a laugh. He stares down at the table and thinks about all the conversations he’s had with Stella, all the suit fittings with Virgil, all the dreams he’s had about seeing them together. It hurts so much he can’t even breathe sometimes, but. “It makes him happy, G. That’s what matters – seeing him happy. And if he’s happy with Stella and not with me, then it’s just a sacrifice I have to make, isn’t it?” 

Gini is silent for a minute and then he pulls Jordan in for a tight hug, arms strong around his shoulders. He’s smaller than Jordan but right now it feels like he’s towering over him, twice the size and heart even bigger than has body. “You’re a much better man than I am, Jordan Henderson. I know I wouldn’t be able to do that,” he says.

“I do it because I have to,” Jordan whispers. He lets himself look into the kitchen and thankfully, Virgil is distracted, frowning down at the pepper he’s trying to julienne. It gives Jordan a chance to look, to take in the details of his face and let himself drown in them. He’s never felt like this about anyone else, because he’s never had the chance to. “I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, but he’s always been my best friend, too. I can’t lose him, Gini. I can’t lose his friendship, so I’ll just keep it to myself like I always have done. That way, nobody gets hurt.”

“Except you,” Gini adds quietly. Jordan doesn’t dignify it with a response, because he doesn’t need to. They both know it’s true anyway. “I don’t want to be all – gossipy teenage girl, but I think he has feelings for you as well, you know.” 

“Shut up,” Jordan says automatically, feeling his spine stiffen. There’s nothing but rejection in his head, because he knows it can’t be possible, and he can’t believe Gini would ever be so cruel as to make him think that. It’s _awful_ , and it isn’t the Gini he thought he knew. “Just – stop talking, alright? I don’t want to hear it, Gini. I can’t handle your lies.” 

“It’s not a lie!” Gini shoots back. He squeezes his fingers around Jordan’s wrist so tight that it hurts, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s scared to make the first move, because he doesn’t want to show any weakness. He’s terrified that Gini might pounce on it. “God, I’ve known you both for almost four years. You’re the people I’m closest to most in this entire world, and I’ve always known there’s been something more than friendship between you! You are not normal best friends, Jordan. It’s deeper than that – you’re both in love with each other.” 

“ _Why_? Why would he look at someone like me and _want_ me?” Jordan snaps, turning his head to meet Gini’s eyes. He’s furious, the heat of it burning at the back of his neck, because even just the suggestion of it is making him absurdly hopeful. “What _single_ indication is he giving you that he has feelings for me, hm? What signals have you picked up on, if you think you’re the be all and end all of relationship knowledge!” 

“You’re wearing his jacket,” Gini says quietly, like it means something.

Jordan can’t help but bark out a sharp laugh, and it’s not a kind one. “I’m wearing his jacket,” he repeats, spitting the words out. He’s never heard anything so ridiculous in his entire life. “I’m wearing his jacket, so _what_? He must be in love with me because I picked up the wrong jacket from the hook this morning?”

“He never lets anyone wear that jacket. He doesn’t let anyone _touch_ it – not even Stella,” Gini says, voice even. It’s true, though – the jacket in question is unmistakably Virgil’s, with patches stitched on that he begged Jordan to design and hand embroider (he didn’t know how, but he taught himself because Virgil asked). Even if he leaves it draped across the counter and Gini tries to move it before opening, he kicks off. It’s his prized possession. “I know he told you to wear it, and it’s _June_ , Jordan. Why are you wearing a jacket in June?”

“Because it’s unseasonably cold?” Jordan argues back. It’s not a lie, to be honest, but Gini is right – Virgil took one look at his outfit and told him that he should wear it. He said it would go better with his hoodie.

“No. You’re wearing it because he asked you to, and he asked you to because it means something to him to see you wear it,” Gini says. He sounds so patient, explaining this to Jordan like he’s trying to teach him how to use the new coffee machine. Jordan thinks that it’s all absolutely fucking ridiculous. “Look, I know that it’s not what you want to hear, but I honestly think it’s true, Jordan. All this confusion and hope – it _sucks_ , but what if it pushes you together? What if this is the kick you both need to sort yourselves out, hm? I think it’s worth the risk. Whatever weird shit is going on between you two –– it’s worth the risk. You’re perfect for each other.”

“I need to get back to work,” Jordan says with finality. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels far too big, but he gets the words out anyway and opens his laptop again. Checks his emails just so it seems like he’s got something to do, but he’s not reading any of them. The words are just swimming like black fish in a white sea, and he doesn’t take any of it in.

After several long minutes, the bell above the door rings and Gini finally gets up from the table. The warmth from his body dissipates and he’s back behind the counter, talking to the customer in quiet murmurs.

Jordan wishes he felt relieved, but all he feels is dread.

.

Virgil picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey, you!” He says, sounding ridiculously chipper. It’s barely half seven and Jordan has been awake for all of five minutes. He hasn’t even showered yet, but the flat was eerily quiet and then awfully empty when he checked every single room, only to find that Virgil was nowhere to be seen. 

“Surprised you even picked up,” Jordan mutters around his mouthful of toast. He knows he probably sounds bitter but it’s only playful. He can’t be angry at Virgil on a normal day, let alone on his birthday. “Considering you left without saying goodbye this morning.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Virgil says, tutting slightly. His voice is tinny so he must have put Jordan on loud speaker, and the sound of wooden chairs scraping against the floor echoes in the background. Jordan wishes they were having this conversation face to face. “I looked in on you but you were fast asleep. You looked so peaceful that it felt wrong to wake you up.”

Jordan huffs, glad that Virgil can’t see the way his cheeks have flushed.

“I wanted to be the first person to wish you a happy birthday,” he says. He knows he’s pouting and he knows that Virgil can probably hear it, but he doesn’t care. It’s just – their tradition. They always make sure to be the first person to wish the other a happy birthday.

“Well, Gini doesn’t start until eight and I gave Ki-jana the day off, so you’re still the first person I’ve spoken to this morning,” Virgil says, gently mocking. He still sounds effortlessly kind, like he doesn’t quite mind that Jordan is the most ridiculous person in the world. Jordan doesn’t really understand it, but he’ll take any little scrap he’s got with both hands. “And anyway – was it you who came into my room at dead on midnight last night to wish me a happy birthday, or some third person that lives in the flat that I don’t know about?” 

“It was a minute past midnight, actually,” Jordan mutters. 

Virgil laughs under his breath and Jordan wants nothing more than to see it – the lines around his eyes, the roundness of his cheeks, the blush on his skin. Jordan wants to see it and he wants to reach out and touch it, but he’s definitely not allowed that.

“I won’t be late, okay?” Virgil says. His voice gets louder like he’s picked the phone up and brought it closer to his mouth, and now Jordan can hear the gentle, calming pattern of his breathing too. “I came in early so I could finish up early. Gini has promised to look after Ki-jana for the last few hours of service so I’ll be home at the same time as you, I promise.” 

“Better be,” Jordan grumbles, smiling at the sweet tone of Virgil’s words. His fingers ghost over the bow that’s tied neatly on Virgil’s present, skin itching like he’s desperate to give it to him, but he knows he has to wait. He’s sure that the extra few hours will make it even better, though. “I do actually want to spend time with you on your birthday, you know.”

“You will,” Virgil promises. By the sounds of it, he heads into the kitchen, because the sound of pots and pans banging together filters through the line. Jordan is used to it by this point, so he doesn’t even flinch. When Virgil speaks again, his voice is playful. “Try not to miss me so much, yeah?” 

Jordan knows that it’s impossible at this point.

.

“Honey, I’m home!” Virgil calls. There’s a silence while he kicks his shoes off and then he appears in the kitchen, grinning triumphantly as he unpacks the contents of his bag. It’s just an awful lot of tupperware boxes, to be honest. “I brought food.”

“Oh!” Jordan says, hauling himself off the couch and heading into the kitchen. He hovers by Virgil’s elbow because frankly, he’s fucking starving. Virgil had texted him during the day to tell him to ease up on lunch because they’d be eating like kings, so he just – didn’t have any. God knows he was regretting the decision when Virgil texted him to tell him he was going to be a little later than normal. “What are we having?” 

“Pasta,” Virgil says, waving the tupperware underneath Jordan’s nose. It looks good and it smells even better, but… 

“Is that it?” Jordan asks, wrinkling his nose. It’s barely more than a single portion, and to be honest, Jordan has seen Virgil eat twice that amount on more than one occasion. Pasta is his favourite – especially pasta as cheesy as this – and Jordan is supposed to expect him to share. That’s a very dangerous expectation. “For two of us?” 

“Yes,” Virgil says, raising an eyebrow like it’s obvious. He’s smirking a little bit, but in a kind way, and he puts the pasta in the microwave before coming back and producing another box. “Because I thought, instead of having a birthday cake, we could do the tasting for my wedding cake!” 

“But you always have a cake,” Jordan says. He’s a little taken aback, because for as long as he can remember, Virgil has always baked himself a cake. Chocolate sponge with chocolate buttercream and chocolate ganache – as chocolatey and indulgent as physically possible, until Jordan regrets eating so much and goes to sleep feeling a little bit sick. It’s their tradition. “What about your triple chocolate cake?”

“I did make extra triple chocolate,” Virgil admits, cheeks flushing like he thinks the same as Jordan about the little tradition. Still, he nudges Jordan with his elbow and smiles, before disappearing over to the microwave to stir the pasta. He always moans about Jordan’s cheap appliances, especially the microwave, because he says it doesn’t heat things through evenly. He’s not the one who has to pay for them, though. “But this way we get more cake than we can possibly even think about eating, then pass out in a sugar coma and sleep for twelve hours. That’s all I want for my birthday, so I’m getting it.” 

Jordan barks out a sharp laugh and squeezes Virgil’s shoulder. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what you shall get, your majesty,” he says, and doesn’t miss the way Virgil’s eyes light up. 

.

Jordan looks at the coffee table in front of him. There's a plate shoved onto every inch of the surface, with at least three pieces on each one. Jordan didn't even know he owned this many plates, to be honest. He's not actually sure where they all came from because he's certain he's never seen any of them in his life, and when he tells Virgil as much, all he gets in return is the younger man rolling his eyes.

"I promise you, these are all your plates," Virgil says. He snatches one off the table and passes it to Jordan. He's even thought to add little sticky notes about the flavours, which is quite thoughtful. It also explains why it took him so long to sort it all out. "Maybe people left them here when you invited them round and they brought some dishes for the dinner party."

"Dinner party? Inviting people round?" Jordan asks, letting out a snort of laughter. He raises his eyebrows at Virgil and picks up a cube of cake that's apparently just a normal Victoria sponge. He's not sure why Virgil felt the need to bake this, because he's eaten plenty of Virgil's Victoria sponges before, but it’s cake. He’s going to eat it anyway. "What exactly do you think goes on around here when you're too busy for me, Virgil? You're the only friend I have."

“That’s not true!” Virgil insists, stretching his leg under the coffee table to kick gently at Jordan’s thigh. He looks like he believes it too, which is quite embarrassing. Jordan can count all the friends he’s ever had on one hand. “You’ve got Gini, he’s your friend, so that’s at least two.”

“Gini is _your_ waiter that _you_ hired to work in _your_ cafe,” Jordan reminds him. Virgil has the grace to look sheepish at least, but he’s still smiling. They both know that Jordan doesn’t care about the fact he’s no social butterfly – he has Virgil, and that’s all he needs. Trusting anyone else sounds exhausting. “I think it’s a bit of a push to call him my _friend_.”

“I’ll tell him you said that!” Virgil says, digging his toes into Jordan’s thigh painfully. He grins when Jordan hisses a curse word at him and sticks his tongue out, and then – that’s it. He can’t even be mad at the fact that Virgil has probably left marks. He bruises like a bad peach. “He loves you, you know. He thinks you’re good friends!”

“You know we are,” Jordan says, finally conceding. He rolls his eyes and flushes a little bit, because he’s almost ashamed of how easy it is for Virgil to have him backing down. It’s ridiculous, and he swears he never used to be this bad. He’s not actually sure where his backbone went. “Fine, I have two whole friends. Are you happy with that?” 

“More than,” Virgil says. He nods happily and then rises to his knees, scanning all the little slices of cake with interest. He picks one out and places it on Jordan’s plate, grinning triumphantly. “This is red velvet with buttercream frosting.”

“Okay, this is good. I’m not sure it’s wedding cake material though,” Jordan says, chewing thoughtfully. He swipes his index finger through a blob of buttercream on the plate and licks it off, sighing happily. This is probably the only upside to planning Virgil’s wedding, if he’s being honest. “I was talking to Stella today and she said she was jealous that she’s missing this part.”

“Probably better that you’re doing this with me – you can eat more cake than her,” Virgil hums. He smiles when Jordan pinches him and offers him another cube of cake. It’s fruity, but not quite right for a wedding, so Jordan frowns and shakes his head. “God, can you imagine if I got as far as marrying Ryan? He wouldn’t even be in the same room as all this cake.”

“Yeah, but he was a dick,” Jordan snorts. He takes a long sip of his cup of tea and takes a quick note of all the types of cake that are left. “He was just – obsessed with his weight and the way he looked. I don’t know how he thought he could honestly be in a relationship with a trained chef.”

“And you hated him,” Virgil says, shoving another slice of cake in his mouth.

“No I did not,” Jordan huffs. He doesn’t actually hate anyone (apart from his family, but that’s a different kind of hate. That’s a valid one), including Virgil’s exes. He actually makes a point of not hating them, so nobody can ever accuse him of being jealous. He takes initiative – he makes an effort. “He hated me, not the other way round. Don’t you remember all those times he near enough called me fat?”

“Of course I remember,” Virgil says. He rolls his eyes and shuffles closer to Jordan so he can nudge his thigh with his knuckles. The gesture is kind, gentle, but Jordan still isn’t quite sure how he’s supposed to take it. “That’s the reason I broke up with him.” 

“My knight in shining armour,” Jordan murmurs sarcastically, but his cheeks are flushed and his heart is pounding. He knows that’s the reason why, and he also knows that it doesn’t mean anything, but _still_. It’s quite nice, to be honest, to have someone care about him that much. Virgil has always cared about him, but he’s still not used to it. “What would I do without you, hm?” 

Virgil laughs, picking out two identical slices of vanilla sponge with salted caramel buttercream and dropping one onto Jordan’s plate. 

“Our lives would be very different,” he admits, watching Jordan carefully as they both pick up the cake and eat it at the same time. “But I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. I know you’ll probably say it’s cringy, but – you’re a huge part of my life, and I can’t see my future without you, Jord.”

A strange look passes over his face. His eyes go a little bit glazed over, wearing a thousand yard stare, and his mouth parts slightly. Not enough that his jaw is on the floor, but enough that it’s noticeable, and a shiver travels down his spine. It’s weird, to be honest, and Jordan takes a closer look at him, but then it’s all gone. His gaze focuses back on Jordan again and he smiles all sweet and dopy, the lines around his eyes going soft.

“You good?” Jordan asks. Virgil nods in return and shoves the rest of his cake in his mouth, and if Jordan was more cynical he’d think that Virgil is trying to find an excuse not to speak. Instead, he tuts when he notices a smear of buttercream at the corner of Virgil’s mouth and swipes it away with his thumb, popping the pad of it in his mouth. Virgil’s face goes all weird again – he looks like he’s despairing. Jordan knows he’s not grossed out, because they’ve definitely done worse shit together before. “What’s wrong with you? I didn’t think the salted caramel was that bad.”

“It’s not,” Virgil says, although he has to swallow a few times before he can speak properly. “It’s fine. It’s just –– fine.” 

And that’s the end of it. Life moves on and after a few more slices of cake, Jordan forgets all about it. He does notice Virgil stealing sneaky little glances of him when he’s not looking, though. He wonders what it’s all about, but he’s not going to push the issue. He figures that Virgil will tell him when he’s good and ready. 

They’re best friends. They don’t keep secrets.

.

Jordan huffs, burying his face into the pillow. He’s been in bed for ages but he’s not been able to sleep yet, because every time he’s close to dropping off, Virgil turns over and the springs of his mattress creak. Clearly, whatever weird thing happened to him earlier is still on his mind, because he’s been tossing and turning for the past two hours.

Which is fine, it really is. God knows that Jordan has kept Virgil up with his problems enough times, but honestly, Jordan would prefer if Virgil would let him in on whatever’s going on. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that, and maybe Virgil would settle better if he was tucked up next to Jordan.

Of course, life isn’t always that simple, and Jordan never gets what he wants – and that includes sleep. 

Eventually, the creaking settles down and it’s finally silent. Jordan counts his blessings and turns over, duvet tucked between his thighs and one hand pillowed under his cheek. He’s so tired his eyes hurt, and that’s just about all he can think about before everything is fading to black…

But then his door slams open and he jumps about six foot out of his skin, clutching his heart like he’s trying to stop it from bursting right out of his chest. Still, when he looks up, all he sees is Virgil, in a threadbare t-shirt and his boxers, shifting from foot to foot. He looks apologetic; eyes wide and bottom lip trapped between his teeth, and Jordan sighs, scooting over to make space. 

“Sorry,” Virgil murmurs, sliding into bed next to Jordan. He smiles sadly when the older man lifts his arm and tucks himself against his side, nose brushing against his collarbone. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Jordan lies. It’s pretty stupid because anyone in a ten mile radius could hear the way his heart is still pounding, but if it makes Virgil feel better, then it’s fine. He brushes the short hairs that have loosened from Virgil’s bun out of his face and kisses his forehead kindly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Virgil shakes his head and then rolls closer into the warmth of Jordan’s body, arm curling around his waist as his hand sneaks underneath his t-shirt. He traces gentle patterns on the muscles of Jordan’s back, but he tries not to let it distract him. It proves even harder when Virgil tucks his face into Jordan’s neck, mouth pressed against the hollow of his throat.

“Do you miss her?” Jordan whispers, brushing the tips of his fingers softly across the back of Virgil’s neck. Goosebumps appear on Virgil’s skin but he doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps breathing evenly and slips his leg between Jordan’s. 

“Who?” He murmurs distantly. Jordan frowns, makes like he’s about to pull away, but then Virgil backtracks quickly. “Oh, Stella. Yeah. I just – didn’t wanna be alone on my birthday, that’s all.”

“You’re not alone,” Jordan says, twisting his head uncomfortably to press a kiss onto Virgil’s temple. He can feel the younger man blink, eyelashes brushing against Jordan’s skin. It tickles, but it feels nice at the same time. Like – he’s alive and he knows it. “For as long as I’m around, Virgil, you’ll never be alone.”

Virgil doesn’t reply. Jordan can feel the moment that his eyelashes flutter closed and his breathing evens out into a slow pattern. He’s lost this fight and he knows it, but that’s okay. Virgil will come to him when he’s good and ready.

For now though, Jordan is content to hold him while he sleeps. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get, so he considers himself more than lucky.

.

Things don’t really change, except for the fact Virgil gets even more needy. It’s the little things, like sliding into Jordan’s bed every night and tangling their legs together. Like sitting next to him instead of opposite him at the dining table, when they’re eating breakfast or dinner. Like resting his head in Jordan’s lap when he’s fresh out of the shower, giving Jordan those big, sad eyes until he gives in and starts playing with his hair.

It’s not really noticeable. He doesn’t think it is, anyway – Gini doesn’t seem to have noticed and Virgil is resolutely not mentioning it, so he can’t ask anyone what’s going on. It’s one big mystery, but the only person that knows about it is refusing to talk.

Jordan goes along with it because that’s the only thing he can do. Nothing to do with his personal feelings either, although it doesn’t _hurt_ the situation. It doesn’t exactly help them, but it definitely doesn’t hurt. He’s more than happy to go along with whatever Virgil wants, because he wants him to feel better.

To put it bluntly, he wants his best friend back.

Because this is them. It always has been them, and it probably always will be. They’ve never been shy, really – sharing beds since they were thirteen years old and Jordan’s mum kicked him out for the first time, and knowing when the other just needs to be held – and that’s not going to change. Jordan thought it would when Stella came along, spent a good eighteen months waiting for the day that the other shoe dropped and he’d be forgotten about, but it never happened. He’s grateful for it, because it’s just about the only intimacy he’ll allow himself these days.

But this is different. This is Virgil actively seeking it, instead of pushing it onto a reluctant Jordan. This is desperation of the rawest kind, like when you’re at a loss and you don’t know who you can trust. This is Virgil in a way that Jordan has never, ever seen him, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it.

So he just goes along with it and reminds Virgil that he’s there, waiting and ready to talk, whenever he decides it’s time. That’s the only thing he can do, because he knows him.

Jordan knows Virgil, and he loves him.

.

Jordan wakes up one morning, and the bed is empty.

It’s weird, because it’s the first day in almost two weeks that Virgil hasn’t been sleeping soundly next to him. Jordan even wakes up earlier these days – it might be a placebo effect, but he’s pretty sure his days are better when he spends an extra few minutes watching Virgil sleep – but still nothing. Virgil isn’t even in the kitchen when Jordan pads through, rubbing his eyes like he expects him to miraculously appear in front of the cooker.

He doesn’t, but Jordan forgoes making himself breakfast anyway. He jumps in the shower and gets ready as quick as he possibly can, because he might be waking up earlier but he’s still on a tight schedule. He’s got a meeting at half nine, and he has to set up before that.

Plus he wants to have breakfast with Virgil. It’s weird but he’s grown used to having Virgil hanging off him like a needy koala, and maybe it’s a little selfish, but he’s not quite ready to give that up yet. One more day, if Virgil really is over whatever was bringing him down. One more day, and then he’ll let things go back to normal.

For now, though –– he just wants Virgil.

“Hey, you,” he says, locking the cafe door behind him. It’s early enough that The Collective is still closed but he’s got a key, has done since Virgil signed the deal on a cold Friday morning and they stood outside the place, pinky fingers linked and bursting with excitement. It was just a shell back then, but now it’s vibrant and warm. It’s Virgil, immortalised in one building. “You left early.”

“Yeah, well,” Virgil says, cheeks a little flushed. Jordan can’t tell if it’s from the warmth of the kitchen or from something else entirely, and he’s not sure when he stopped being able to read every line on Virgil’s face. It makes him uncomfortable. “Always busy, aren’t I? Got stuff to do.”

“Too busy for breakfast with your oldest and bestest friend?” Jordan asks. He pouts a little and makes his eyes wider, trying for that innocent look that always seems to work on Virgil. Bats his eyelashes a few times until Virgil sighs, finally broken down, and gestures to Jordan’s favourite corner in the table.

“Fine, but I haven’t got long,” Virgil says, turning his back on Jordan to make him a coffee. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder though, snatched little glimpses like he’s checking if Jordan is watching. He must know by now that Jordan is always watching him. “Will eggs benedict do?”

“Eggs benedict is perfect,” Jordan says, smiling sweetly when he catches Virgil looking. Virgil smiles back on instinct, lines around the corners of his eyes crinkling. That look suits him. “You know I love everything you cook.”

“What are you after?” Virgil shoots back, bringing the coffee over. He lingers for a minute, waiting for Jordan to take that appreciative first sip, and then squeezes his shoulder before he disappears back into the kitchen, shouting so he can make himself heard. “You’re never normally this nice to me.”

“I’m always nice!” Jordan insists, watching Virgil as he cooks. He’s glad that it’s a dish that doesn’t take long, because he wants to spend as much time with Virgil as possible. Maybe he’s the one being needy now, but it’s not his fault. He’s just grown accustomed to it, and he needs it. Sets his day off to a good start. “You just – seem like you need it recently, that’s all.”

Virgil doesn’t reply for a long time. He focuses on the food, frying the bacon and poaching the eggs, and takes just as long to plate it up nicely. He always goes on about presentation and how it’s almost as important as the way the food tastes, but even this is pushing it. This is just an avoidance tactic, but they both know he can’t avoid it forever, and eventually, he brings the plates over to the table, sitting opposite Jordan with a serious look on his face.

“I am okay, I promise,” he says quietly, reaching out and curling his fingers around Jordan’s wrist. He squeezes gently and doesn’t pull away like Jordan expects, instead, picks up his fork and makes it infinitely more difficult to eat his breakfast. “I left early today because I know I’ve been a bit much recently. I wanted to give you some space.”

“I don’t need space,” Jordan says. The words come out of his mouth so quick he can’t process them, but it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t take them back even if he could, because it’s the most truthful he’s been since Virgil moved in with him. “This isn’t a one way friendship, Virgil. I hope you know that. You’re always there for me and I’m eternally grateful, but it goes the other way too. You’re my best friend. I want to know what you’re thinking, and if I can, I want to help you. Your problems are my problems, because I love you. Because I know that you’d do the same – and probably more – for me, too.” 

A sweet little smile graces Virgil’s face and he dips his head, but it doesn’t quite hide the blush on his cheeks. It doesn’t matter anyway because Jordan sees it and he loves it, treasures it in his heart with all the other secret little moments he’s kept. He doesn’t feel cold when Virgil pulls his hand away, because the smile is keeping him warm.

“Thank you,” Virgil says, voice raw with emotion. He looks up again and there’s an extra glint in his eye, like they’re wet and he’s trying to hold the tears back. Jordan’s not cruel enough to call him out on it. “Let me make it up to you, though. Not like – in a bad way. Just giving you something back. Let me cook dinner tonight, something fancy. And you should dress nice, too. We can make an evening of it.” 

“Like a date?” Jordan asks playfully, taking a bite of his breakfast and raising his eyebrows at Virgil. He’s expecting the younger man to play it off like the joke it is, but instead…

“Yeah, like a date,” Virgil says. There’s not a single hint on his face that he’s joking – he’s just grinning, fingers twitching against the tabletop like he wants to reach out and touch, but he manages to restrain himself. His eyes are bright and his skin is flushed and _no_ , Jordan thinks, snapping himself out of it. It’s not a date. It’s just a joke and it isn't a date. 

There’s no way it’s not.

.

"Hi!" Virgil says, bustling through the door. He looks a bit flustered, all red and sweaty, like he's been rushing to get home. Home - Jordan really needs to stop calling it that. This isn't Virgil's home. He's leaving in a few weeks. "Are we still on for dinner?"

“Yes, I’m fucking starving,” Jordan grumbles, hanging over the back of the sofa so he can look at Virgil. He’s been home for ages and got ready not long after, so it’s been long, long minutes of waiting. Which isn’t all that bad, really, but he barely had anything for lunch and he hadn’t even heard a single word from Virgil. He was starting to wonder if he made it all up, to be honest. “Didn’t realise you’d be this long.”

“Sorry, I’ve had a nightmare of a day,” Virgil sighs, setting his bag down on the kitchen counter. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and mouth bitten red. He only bites his lip when he’s anxious, and they’re so chapped they look painful. “The order didn’t come in right this week and we ran out of carrots, so I had to send Gini down to Tesco to get a shit load. Then I had a nightmare lunch order that lasted forever, because it was a business meeting and they just were not happy with anything even though it was all perfect. We managed to close up on time but I thought it would be easier if I prepared all the food for tonight at the cafe and then just before I was about to lock up, there was a power cut, and it took me ages to sort the generators out so the stuff in the fridge stayed fresh. And it's been so crazy that I forgot to text you like I was going to a few hours ago. Sorry."

"It's okay, it sounds stressful," Jordan says, unfolding himself from his spot on the sofa and walking over to Virgil. He looks shattered, swaying on his feet slightly, and Jordan tuts, pulling him in for a hug. He's not sure whether it's to give him comfort or make sure he stays upright. "Are you sure you want fancy dinner? We can always take a rain check, Virg - get a takeaway and an early night. You look like you need it."

“No, I promised you, didn’t I?” Virgil says, nodding to himself. He didn’t exactly say the words, but Jordan isn’t going to deny it, because he’s selfish enough to want to spend time with Virgil, just the two of them. “It’s not much work, it’s fine. Just have to boil the gnocchi and warm the sauce up, but I need a shower first.”

“I’ll do it,” Jordan says immediately. Anything to have more time with Virgil to himself, because he’s becoming increasingly aware that he doesn’t have much time left with him. “I’ll do it while you shower. Don’t look at me like that, dickhead – I can boil pasta.”

“It’s not pasta, it’s gnocchi,” Virgil says instantly, eyeing Jordan like he’s something on the bottom of his shoe. Honestly, he’s such a food snob that it’s painful sometimes. Gnocchi, pasta – it’s the same fucking thing. And Virgil calls Jordan uptight. “Are you sure? You burnt three minute noodles once, Jord.” 

“I’m sure, Virgil. I might not be a trained chef but I can boil _gnocchi_ and put a tupperware box in the microwave,” Jordan says. He plants his hands on Virgil’s shoulders and spins him round, leading him towards the bathroom. “Go shower. You stink and I want to eat my food without smelling you, so go. And dinner will be done when you’re out and ready, okay? I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

“Fine,” Virgil says, huffing as he opens the bathroom door. He ends up in the doorway, facing Jordan with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulder leaning on the wooden frame. There’s a smirk on his face, and Jordan wants to roll his eyes already. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

And then the door shuts, leaving Jordan with nothing but the sound of his pounding heart.

.

“Pass me your plate, I’ll go do the washing up,” Virgil says, holding his hand out expectantly. Dinner was ridiculously good – apparently the first time Virgil had ever tried this dish, although you wouldn’t tell – and Jordan feels a little bit like he’s in a carb coma.

Still, though. Virgil cooked, so it would be rude to make him clean up as well.

“No, you’re alright, Virg. I’ll do it,” he says, pushing Virgil’s hand back into his chest. Virgil gives him a look but ultimately concedes, because he knows he’s not going to win this fight. He cooks, and Jordan washes up. That’s the way it’s always been, and it will be that way until the day that Virgil decides he’s had enough of Jordan. He’d like to say it was the way his mother raised him, but it was more the way _Virgil’s_ mother raised him. “Later though, okay? I was sorting out some stuff in my room earlier and I found some old photo albums.”

“Oh, God,” Virgil says automatically, pressing his palm to his forehead. He’s cringing and Jordan just laughs, because he flipped through them earlier. There’s some absolute shockers in there, and if he has to suffer, then so does Virgil. “Go on then, go get them. May as well get it over with.” 

Jordan grins triumphantly and gets to his feet, skipping into his room and picking the photo albums up. He left them on his bed because he knew there’s no way Virgil would turn down the opportunity to look at them. Sure, some of the shit they did was kind of rough, but it’s funny to look back on now that they’ve made it out alive.

He sits down again but on the floor this time, legs stretched across the space underneath the coffee table as he puts the albums in front of him. Virgil seems to be drawn to him like a magnet and he slides off the couch so he’s sitting next to Jordan, so close that their sides are pressed together, and hooks his chin over Jordan’s shoulder. If he moved, he’d be able to feel Virgil’s hand planted on the floor, dangerously close to his arse. He can already feel the heat of his skin, and it makes his heart beat a pretty rhythm against his ribs.

“I remember that,” Virgil breathes as soon as Jordan opens the photo album to reveal the first picture. Jordan cringes, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling while he finds the courage to look back down at it again. The picture is of him, sixteen and spotty, curled up in Virgil’s bed. He remembers how hot it was that day – the duvet is kicked away from his legs and he’s wearing a pair of Virgil’s loose basketball shorts. Thankfully, his back is towards the camera, so there’s no evidence of him drooling or his sunburnt nose from long days playing football in the fields between their houses. “You look so peaceful.”

“Shut up,” Jordan grumbles, turning his head slightly to glare at Virgil. The younger man is just grinning, staring down at the photo with a look in his eyes that Jordan can’t decipher. The lines on his face are soft, completely defenseless. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. “You always used to take photos of me asleep.”

“Haven’t you heard the saying?” Virgil asks. Jordan knows that he’s not going to like whatever he says next because his voice is already teasing, the fingertips of his left hand dancing playfully up Jordan’s thigh. “We take pictures of the things we care about the most, Jordan.” 

“Bollocks – you only did it because you knew it pissed me off,” Jordan grumbles, flicking Virgil’s hand away.

“That’s true. You’re right there,” Virgil says, huffing out a slight laugh. He reaches across Jordan’s body and flips the page, fingertips trailing over the shiny plastic cover almost hesitantly. “God, look at that. Is that Fifa we’re playing? What year even was it?”

“I think we’re seventeen so… It’s got to be 2011. Fifa 12,” Jordan says, smirking when he squints at the TV screen in the background. You can barely work it out, but the graphics are evidently a bit shitter than the Fifa they played last night (which Jordan won, of course). “Your mum took this picture, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she loved having you round ours,” Virgil says conversationally. The tone of his voice is covering something else, although before Jordan can work out what it is, it turns teasing. Genuine this time. “She always says you’re like the son she never had. Politer than me and Jordon, and Jennee always listened to you. Got all the brownie points, you did. The rest of us never got a look in.”

“All mums love me – except my own,” Jordan mutters. It’s automatic, really, and he doesn’t even think about what he’s said, but it clicks in his mind when he feels Virgil freeze next to him. He shakes off the kind touch and rolls his eyes. “Stop it, it’s fine, alright? She made it very clear how she feels, and I don’t care anymore. I don’t need her.”

“No, you don’t,” Virgil says. His voice is quiet but in an awed way, and he squeezes Jordan’s knee tightly once before clearing his throat and flipping the page again. It feels like all the oxygen leaves his lungs when he sees the photograph, but it’s nothing special really. Grey skies and yellowed, dead grass. Jordan sitting too close to the edge of a cliff, and Virgil sat next to him, one hand on his back. Nothing out of the ordinary, except.

It was, really, a huge fucking moment.

Jordan hadn’t long turned seventeen. It was the September of that year, when they’d only been back at school a matter of weeks and yet the pressure about A Levels was already being piled on them. He would call it the worst year of his life, but there are a few other years that could give it a run for its money.

He doesn’t even remember what day it was. A Saturday or a Sunday, probably, because he doesn’t remember being at school. It was fairly insignificant, all things considered, but to him (and Virgil, because god knows he’s been by Jordan’s side through just about everything imaginable), it’s such a turning point in his life. Everything could’ve gone so differently if it had all happened five minutes later.

“How did you even find me?” Jordan breathes, letting his body sag back against Virgil’s. He doesn’t mind the reminder but it’s emotionally exhausting, even after all these years. It’s like as soon as he sees a picture, all the memories and emotions come flooding back, and he’s seventeen years old again, trapped in a house that he hated with a mother who couldn’t stand the sight of him. “You never told me.”

“I don’t even know. One minute I was doing my physical health homework and the next your little sister was at my front door, crying her eyes out. Jody was, what, eleven? She could barely speak, man, but she eventually said she’d heard you and your mum arguing for hours, and then when she tried to see if you were okay, you were gone and none of your clothes were in your wardrobe,” Virgil says. He tilts his head so he can press his mouth into Jordan’s shoulder, nose brushing against his collarbone. It’s a sure sign he’s almost in tears. “It was just instinctive to go up to the cliffs. I just knew you’d be there, somehow. I felt like I knew you the way I knew myself.”

“You did. You still do,” Jordan whispers, blindly reaching out for Virgil’s left hand and covering it with his own. “I wanted to leave so bad, but I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you first. The only problem with that was I knew that if I saw you, you’d convince me to stay. So I went to the cliffs, because that was our place, wasn’t it? I went up there to say goodbye to you. It was the only way I knew how.”

“Would you have left?” Virgil breathes. He sounds a little bit hurt, but Jordan understands. They’ve been everything to each other since they were kids. It must hurt to think that the other half of you could up and leave like that, and Jordan could never imagine doing it now. He can’t even entertain the thought of Virgil doing it to him. “If I hadn’t have found you and stopped you, would you have left?”

“Yes,” Jordan says, without a hint of hesitance in his voice. It’s awful but if there’s anyone he can be honest with, it’s Virgil. He knows that all he’ll get in return is honesty, too – honesty and no judgement. “Yes, I would’ve gone. I’d already bought the train ticket. I planned it all, you know? I’d had it planned since I was thirteen. How to disappear and never bump into her again. Start my life again, hundreds of miles away, knowing that she wouldn’t care to file a missing persons report. God, Virgil. I had it all planned.”

The only reason he never ended up catching that train is because Virgil convinced him not to. To be honest, he wasn’t surprised that he was found (maybe he wanted it, deep down), but he was still disappointed when he saw Virgil, gripping his little sister’s hand, when their silhouettes came over the hill. He was still disappointed when Jody ran up and hugged him tighter than anyone had ever hugged him before. He was still disappointed when he watched Virgil sit her down at the base of a tree far enough away that she wouldn’t be in danger, place his ratty old camera in her hands, and told her to stay there because he needed to talk to her brother.

He was still disappointed when Virgil sat down next to him, put an arm around his shoulders, and talked him out of it. Virgil had said that he needed to be strong, to carry on. He had a year left – all he needed to do was get decent grades on his A Levels and then he had a brilliant job waiting for him at a design agency in town, and he’d be earning enough to move out. If he left, Virgil had said, he’d never see Jody again. Did he want that? No, of course he didn’t. He loved his little sister more than anything.

Then stay, Virgil said. Like it was that easy.

It wasn’t easy, but he’d managed it. He survived, and when he was sat on that clifftop staring down at the freezing cold water below him, he honestly never expected to survive it. They’d sat in silence for a while, Virgil giving him time to mull his options over, although he had been tracing patterns on Jordan’s back. Letters, words, sentences. It was their thing when they didn’t want to be overhead. A private little way of communicating. 

“What were you even saying?” Jordan asks, shocking them both out of their silence. Virgil even jumps a little bit, and it makes Jordan smile, hanging his head to keep it private. Nobody needs to see that look on his face. It gives away a bit too much. “What were you tracing on my back?”

“We’ll get through this together,” Virgil says straight away, like he doesn’t need to think about it for even a second. Jordan can see his cheeks flush brighter out of the corner of his eye. It’s sweet. “It was a bit of a mouth full, so I’m not surprised you didn’t remember – you probably couldn’t even work it out at the time – but, yeah. That’s what I was writing.” 

“I remember. I definitely worked it out,” Jordan says quietly, distractedly. He can remember how it felt to have Virgil tracing those letters on his skin, and how it felt to trust him one hundred percent. He’d never felt that before. He never thought he would. Still – now’s not the time to get all emotional. They’re meant to be having a nice night. “I’m still surprised Jody managed to take that picture, you know. All the others were shit.”

Virgil barks out a laugh, sweet and loud. Jordan loves the sound of it. “I know, but I’m not telling her that,” he says. His wide grin is reflected in Jordan’s wine glass when he brings it up to his mouth, and he wishes he had that stupid old camera now to capture that smile forever. “I still have all those pictures at home somewhere.”

Home, because Jordan is often violently reminded that this _isn’t_ Virgil’s home.

He flips onto the next page and smiles at the sight of it. It’s a stupid selfie – they’re both pulling faces and the tops of their heads are cut off, out of frame to their eyebrows. Virgil had pouted when Jordan took the piss out of it, insisted that it was hard to take a photo when you couldn’t see the screen.

It’s still ended up being one of Jordan’s favourite photos of them, because it’s honest. One of the few times of their teenage years that Jordan was genuinely happy: the day he put the deposit down on his first flat. It’s the one he still lives in, of course, but that didn’t matter back then. He wasn’t looking to the future, or how long he was going to stay in the same place. All that mattered was getting away from the devil herself while still being able to spend time with Jody when he wanted to.

And, of course, still seeing Virgil. That was probably the most important thing of all, although he’ll never admit it to anyone but himself. He’s allowed those selfish little pleasures sometimes.

The sickening smile on his face is hard to look at. It gives too much away, he thinks, because when he looks at himself, head turned towards Virgil, laughing at the squint of his eyes because he didn't expect the flash, he sees it written all over his face: _I love you. I love you. I love you_. Honestly, it's a wonder he even managed to keep it to himself for this long (Gini doesn't count).

He swallows it back and flips the page so he doesn't have to look at it anymore, trying to ignore the heat that's creeping up the back of his neck. Thankfully, Virgil hasn't seemed to notice, drinking his wine without a care in the world. 

The next picture doesn’t do him any favours. They’re all out of order, and in this one he’s fifteen, even spottier, lanky and not quite grown into himself. Confused about his feelings for Virgil and just about having his first sexuality crisis. You couldn’t tell just by looking at the picture, and Jordan’s proud of that. He spent a full week sleeping in the same room as Virgil, and then at least one night a week after that. It’s pretty hard to hide the fact you’re having a sexuality crisis in such close proximity to the person you’re having it about.

He’s smiling in the picture. His hair’s a mess so he’s clearly just woken up, sitting with his back against the wooden frame of Virgil’s single bed (he’d only upgraded to a double when they were sixteen and Jordan started staying the night more often). Listening to music, probably Two Door Cinema Club, because he and Virgil were obsessed with them back then. They thought it made them cool, to be honest, and the thought makes him smirk now.

“This was the week when my mum kicked me out, wasn’t it?” Jordan asks absently, gaze trailing from his own pale face to Virgil’s. He looks pretty much the same – his hair was just as wild as it is now but it’s not tied up in his trademark bun in the photo, so they probably just woke up. His cheeks are rounder too, but he’s still gorgeous. Jordan still feels the same as he did back then when he looks at him, and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about it. “Oi, are you even listening to me?”

Virgil doesn’t react until he feels the sharpness of Jordan’s elbow in his ribs, and even then he doesn’t look up. He does take a deep intake of breath though, blowing it out steadily like he’s shaken to the core.

“You told me you were staying with me because Jody was sick,” Virgil says quietly. His voice isn’t as steady as his breathing – his words shake and then break at the end. He sounds betrayed, that’s what it is. Like Jordan has somehow let him down. “Did you lie to me?”

Jordan closes his eyes, cursing himself for not thinking about what he was saying. He never told Virgil what happened at the time, because they both had a lot going on. Virgil was stressed out, you see; it was slap bang in the middle of all their GCSE exams, and he just wasn’t getting any better at maths. He was fretting about it, properly. Biting his nails until the skin around them was red raw and confessing to Jordan in the middle of the night that he didn’t think he was going to pass.

He had bigger things on his mind, and that’s why Jordan didn’t tell him. He’d reasoned with himself that nobody else should have to deal with his shit, so he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t hard, to be honest. He didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. If anyone knew the truth thoughts that had been running through his mind back then, they’d have locked him up in a ward and thrown away the key.

And he’s pretty sure that Virgil’s mum knew, so he wasn’t entirely on his own. She never said anything outright, of course – she was far too polite for that, and she knew that he didn’t want to discuss it – but she was kind. Kinder than normal, and she’d cornered Jordan just before dinner one day, and told him that he always had a place at her table. She was more of a mother to him than the actual woman who had given birth to him was.

“I’m sorry,” Jordan whispers, curling his fingers into fists and staring down at them. He squeezes until his knuckles turn white and his bones ache, swallowing the bile that’s rising up his throat. He feels guilty. All these years later, and he feels fucking guilty. “I never meant –”

“You never meant for me to find out?” Virgil asks, but it’s not unkind. He turns his head slightly so his nose is brushing against the high point of Jordan’s cheekbone, eyelashes grazing his skin when he blinks. “Why didn’t you just tell me, Jord? Why didn’t you tell me that she kicked you out?” 

“Because you were already so stressed!” Jordan says, swiping his palm roughly across his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to make a scene, and he’d rather this hadn’t come up in the first place, but he was fucking stupid enough not to think before he spoke. No wonder nobody ever fucking wants him. He’s gone and upset his best friend. “It was the week we had our final maths exam and you were _so_ stressed. You constantly had your head in the workbook and when you weren’t doing that you were doing past exams, and you barely slept and you only ate when your mum forced you to, and you didn’t _need_ my problems on top of all that. You seemed a bit brighter when I was around, like some of the stress had gone away, and I couldn’t ruin that. I couldn’t ruin that for you, Virgil. I couldn’t make you feel worse than you already did.” 

“Jordan,” Virgil breathes. He sounds choked up, like he’s completely and totally overwhelmed. Jordan rests his temple against the top of Virgil’s head just because he feels like he’s so tired he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. He needs Virgil to prop him up because in this moment, his body is made of lead. “Just when I think that you can’t make me feel any more insane, I ––”

Jordan doesn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence, because Virgil places a large, warm hand on his cheek, and kisses him.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels momentous. The world stops spinning and the angels start to sing, and Jordan feels like everything in his entire life has led up to this. The planets align. The stars go out, one by one, and the moon fades to darkness. There is only a single spotlight, aiming straight at this world, this country, this city. On the two of them, sitting on the floor of Jordan’s living room with their legs stretched out in front of them – kissing. Warm hands and soft mouths. 

Everything Jordan has ever wanted, and nothing he ever thought he’d get.

Virgil’s tongue is all wet heat when it brushes against the fullness of Jordan’s bottom lip, and he opens his mouth without thinking about it. Lets Virgil in, licking against the backs of his teeth, taking anything he wants and not even questioning it. He willingly gives himself to Virgil, because he’s only ever been his.

It feels incredible. He’s pictured this thousands of times but none of them live up to it, the real thing. None of those scenarios are as good as this, and it’s a little bit overwhelming. His heart has swollen so big that he’s scared it’s going to burst right out of his chest, and his hands are shaking. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with them, where he’s allowed to touch. He curls his fingers around Virgil’s wrist because it’s the safest place he can think of, and because he needs to stop himself from floating away.

When Virgil moved in, Jordan never expected it to end like this. He didn’t think that three months later he’d finally know what the inside of Virgil’s mouth tasted like – wine, the familiar four sugars that he takes in his tea, and underneath it, something that Jordan doesn’t recognise but he knows is distinctly him. He thought that he’d just plan the wedding and watch Virgil float away down the aisle never to be seen again.

Which –– _shit, fuck_. The wedding. The fucking wedding, to the woman that Virgil has been in a committed relationship with for three years. How could he forget? How could he fucking –––

He pulls away from the kiss at the same time as he pushes Virgil away. It’s harsh and it physically hurts, a yearning in his chest and a voice at the back of his mind screaming at him not to do it, but this isn’t who he is. He knows what it’s like to come from a broken family. He’s not going to be a homewrecker. He promised himself that a long, long time ago.

“No, Virgil –” he gasps, trying not to be sucked in by the way Virgil is tangling their fingers together. “We can’t, what about –” 

“Don’t think about it,” Virgil whispers, cutting him off. His voice is so firm, so sure, so _soothing_ , that he does what he’s told. All thoughts of Stella drop out of his mind and he’s entranced by the colour of Virgil’s eyes. He’s never noticed how dark they are before, how brightly they shine. “None of that matters, Jordan. It’s just you and me.” 

He lets himself be drawn back into another kiss, and this time, Virgil rises to his knees. Pushes Jordan back against the sofa cushions and spiders those long fingers along both sides of his jaw, knees fitting perfectly in the space between Jordan’s thighs. His legs fall further open of their own accord and he flushes hotly at how desperate he must seem but Virgil just smirks into his mouth, letting out a breathy little laugh that tastes like heaven.

He’s so turned on that it hurts from all of two kisses, but he wants _more_. He’s had a taste of it and he’s addicted already, wants all of Virgil, until there’s nothing left, until he’s laid out bare and Jordan has taken everything he possibly can. It’s greedy and it’s selfish but he wants all of Virgil, the bones and atoms and spirit of him, and he wants to make it unmistakably _his_. Wants to change him until he’s not recognisable as anybody else’s ever again.

Virgil, thankfully, seems to be on the same page.

He slides his fingers around until they tangle in Jordan’s hair, pulling his head back sharply. It draws a high pitched keening noise out of him, one that he’s never heard himself make before, but Virgil groans at it, the sound vibrating on Jordan’s tongue as he brushes his hips against Jordan’s stomach.

“You have – no idea,” Virgil says, pulling away from the kiss for all of two seconds before diving back in. He sounds completely wrecked, voice trembling and raw. Jordan feels himself flush with pride at the fact that _he’s_ the one who’s done that to Virgil. Just him, and nobody else. This is just another thing on a long list that they share, only for them to know about. “ _No_ idea how you make me feel. You’re driving me crazy, Jordan. Fucking –– insane.” 

He grips the back of Jordan’s neck and curls the fingers of his other hand around the back of his thigh, using his bare strength to lift him until he’s sitting on the sofa, legs splayed wide and chest heaving. Virgil is still on the floor, kneeling between his thighs and looking at him with dark, dark eyes and burning cheeks. He licks his lips like he’s hungry. Like he’s about to devour Jordan, and not leave a trace behind.

Jordan doesn’t like to be left behind. 

Virgil pushes forward so he’s right in Jordan’s space, swollen mouth brushing against his cheek. His hands slide up Jordan’s thighs, fingertips digging into the muscle almost painfully, but it just sends sparks of pleasure down his spine. Nobody has ever made him feel like this before. To be honest, he didn’t know it was possible.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jerking sharply when Virgil’s thumb brushes purposely against his crotch. His dick is pressing against the zip of his jeans, so hard it’s aching, and the touch is so close to what he wants but also not enough. He wants more, skin on skin, the roughness of Virgil’s palm slickening with come, squeezing tightly at the base so he has to wait a few more minutes. He wants Virgil to drive him to the edge.

“Soon,” Virgil says patiently, voice heavy with amusement. His lips brush against the pulse point on Jordan’s throat, where it’s fluttering unevenly, and then he bites down there, hard and unforgiving. It’s going to leave a mark, dark and aching for days, fading into red. Jordan feels giddy with the thought, because he wants to look in the mirror and see the reminder that Virgil left him. “If you’re patient.” 

“You’re such a dick,” Jordan gasps. He pulls the band that’s keeping Virgil’s hair up free and tangles his fingers in the curls, fingernails scratching sharply against his scalp. The little noise that comes out of Virgil’s mouth is beautiful, and he knows he’s going to treasure it forever. “Who would’ve guessed that you’d be such a mouthy fuck even when you’re trying to get off?”

“You guessed,” Virgil says, pulling away from leaving little marks on Jordan’s neck to grin sharply at him. He slides a hand under the older man’s t-shirt, thumbing over the hard bud of his nipple for a second before moving it back down like he’s spoilt for choice and doesn’t quite know what to do first. His index finger brushes down the length of Jordan’s happy trail, slow and deliberate, and then he palms him roughly through his jeans. “You guessed, all those times you pictured it. Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured it, because I know you have. I know you’ve pictured it because I’ve pictured it too.” 

Jordan doesn’t even feel ashamed anymore. He knows that Virgil wants him just as much as he wants Virgil. It’s written all over his face; in the blazing black of his eyes, the hot redness of his mouth. It’s in the bead of sweat that’s rolling down his temple and the thick outline of his dick against his jeans, pressing so intently that it must hurt.

He knows what’s going on. It’s just – an animalistic reaction, when you’ve been apart from the person you love for so long. Sex is sex. A biological process. Hormones and pheromones, and the rush of endorphins afterwards. Jordan just happened to be nearby when Virgil couldn’t control himself anymore. He just happened to be easy enough for it to be satisfactory. 

Virgil staggers to his feet and holds his hands out for Jordan, grinning devilishly when he takes them and pulls him to a standing position. Their hands drop but he doesn’t let go, instead taking a moment to stare at Jordan, gaze dragging heavily down his body like he’s taking in every single detail. Like he’s trying to commit it to memory, to think about when their friendship is long since over and they haven’t even so much as said hello in passing in years.

He isn’t stupid enough to think that it won’t end up like that, but he’s come too far now. He may as well see it out.

He’s not expecting it when Virgil curls a hand around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. This one isn’t quite like the others – it’s softer, kinder. More forgiving, less biting. It’s Virgil’s tongue brushing against Jordan’s like he’s trying to heal his wounds from all the rough grabbing, but Jordan doesn’t need to be healed. He’d rather the wounds be raw and open, because if they hurt, then he knows they’re real. He can cling to that, instead of the false attachment that these sweet little kisses give him.

That doesn’t mean he can bring himself to pull away from it, though.

Virgil pulls back and plants one soft little peck on Jordan’s mouth and then pulls him through the hallway and into the bedroom. He goes willingly, one foot after the other like he’s on autopilot. At this moment in time, he’d go anywhere Virgil wanted him to. He’s completely spellbound, trapped under his gaze. He knows nothing else. Nobody else. He never will. He’s never going to recover from this.

The younger man turns so that he’s facing Jordan, a lovely little smile gracing his face. He’s backed himself into a corner, the backs of his thighs pressing against the edge of the mattress, like it’s where he wants to be. Jordan doesn’t quite know how to handle it. Is this a test? Is Virgil expecting him to do something? 

He waits, but nothing happens. Instead, Virgil slowly lowers himself to sit on the bed, hands sliding down to rest on Jordan’s hips. The look on his face is so expectant that it’s painfully endearing, sweet in an innocent kind of way. That look shouldn’t fit in this situation, when the room is hot and humid and musky with the smell of arousal, but it does. Jordan can’t picture it anywhere else. He can’t picture it aimed at anyone else, and he wants to keep it that way.

“Are you sure?” He whispers, curving his hand around Virgil’s cheek. Virgil leans into the touch like a lost little animal that’s finally found its home, nose brushing against the softest part of his palm. His eyelashes flutter closed, and he looks so content that Jordan’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He’s never, ever seen that look on Virgil’s face before. “Are you sure you want this? Because there’s no going back.” 

Jordan has ruined enough friendships with sex to know that.

“I want this,” Virgil says. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his voice, and Jordan would know because he is looking for it extra closely. His face looks incredibly earnest – eager, even. Viciously, Jordan thinks that he’s never looked like this while planning the wedding. Incredibly vicious, but if he’s allowing this to happen, then vicious thoughts are the last thing on his list of things to worry about. “I want this, I want _you_. I want you, Jordan. I always have.” 

He nods, although it’s shaky. He wants Virgil too, always has, always will. Even when this is just a thing of the past. When Virgil is only a passing mention to a new friend, when Jordan talks about something he used to do. He’ll think fondly of this, shiver at the ghost of Virgil’s mouth on his skin, and push back that awful yearning feeling that never really goes away. He’ll do it because he has to. Because it’ll be the only way he’ll survive. 

Virgil seems to notice the shift in the atmosphere. He rests his chin heavily against Jordan’s stomach, tilting his head right back so he can look up at his face. His thumbs dip into the back pockets of Jordan’s jeans, but there’s no ulterior motive to it. It’s just – a little gesture. One of the things that Jordan will think fondly of.

“Are you okay?” Virgil whispers, snapping Jordan out of his thoughts. He swallows back the lump that’s starting to rise in his throat and decides to focus on the here and now. The future can wait until it’s the present, so he tangles his fingers in Virgil’s hair and finally meets his eyes, nodding, far more sure of himself than he was before. “Good. Take your clothes off, Jordan. Take them off.” 

Jordan blinks, eyelashes dragging heavily as he blinks. His mouth falls open and he keeps his gaze on Virgil’s face like he’s expecting him to say it’s a joke, but his lips are in a deadly straight line and his eyes are serious. He wants it, so Jordan is going to give him it, and he pulls away far enough that he can get his hands between his body and Virgil’s.

His fingers are trembling ever so slightly when he starts to undo the buttons on his shirt, and Virgil notices, gripping his hand tightly and pressing soft, chaste kisses to the skin. He doesn’t know how, but it works – he’s stopped shaking when Virgil lets go and he feels confident in a way that he hasn’t for years, even under the burning scrutiny of Virgil’s gaze. He wants to show Virgil everything he’s got, show him that he’s ready for the taking. 

Virgil swallows visibly, eyes drinking in every new inch of skin that Jordan reveals. He looks – awed, that’s the only word for it. Like it’s been so long since he’s seen a body that isn’t his own that he’s forgotten what it looks like. Jordan doesn’t mind, really. He’s happy to be the reminder, especially when it makes him feel like this. Virgil’s eyes light up, teeth digging into his bottom lip painfully like he has to do it to hold himself back, and Jordan shivers. His spine turns to liquid, nothing but pleasure and pride, and he lets out a quiet little gasp when Virgil’s hands slide up his sides.

It’s terrifying, this feeling. Virgil’s long fingers wrap around his ribs and press bruises into the thin skin there, but not enough to cause damage. He probably could, if he wanted to. Shatter the bones, reach right in and squeeze his fist around Jordan’s heart. That’s how it feels. Like he’s got Jordan’s heart right in the palm of his hand, and nobody knows if he’s going to cherish it or throw it away. Jordan is too far gone to be able to stop him from doing either.

“You are – so gorgeous,” Virgil breathes. His voice sounds raw and shaken, and his eyes are wet when he blinks up at Jordan. Which – is ridiculous in itself, because Virgil has seen his body thousands of times in the past, and it’s never elicited this reaction before. He’s never cried while watching Jordan get changed. “Fuck, I can’t believe –”

As soon as all the buttons are undone and the shirt falls open, Virgil starts pressing kisses to Jordan’s stomach. Tiny little brushes of skin that spark fires in his veins, and then Virgil’s tongue is tracing wet paths around his muscles. He smiles when goosebumps break out across Jordan’s skin, the tips of his fingers dancing delicately over them. It’s all just the calm before the storm, because then he bites down sharply, holding Jordan close so he can’t pull away.

He gasps, breaking off into a moan when he feels Virgil’s tongue lick soothingly over the skin, and his hand tightens in Virgil’s hair. That one is definitely going to bruise – teeth marks all purple and blue, the skin reddened around it, just below his nipple. He’s going to enjoy looking at that one, pressing his fingers against it.

“Did it hurt?” Virgil asks, pulling away and tracing his fingers over the mark. It aches when he touches it but Jordan just keens, spine arching towards Virgil desperately. 

“Yes,” he admits quietly, hissing out when Virgil presses down on it. His dick is aching, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and he wants nothing more than to be touched now. He can’t bring himself to ask for it, though – a part of him is still terrified that he’s going to scare Virgil off. “Yes, it hurt. But I like it.” 

The grin he gets in return is blindingly beautiful, stretched wide across Virgil’s face as he drops chaste kisses over the bruise. “You’re so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing delicately across Jordan’s skin. “So, so good for me.”

He hates the way the praise makes him flush with pride, but he’s barely got time to think about it because Virgil scoots back across the bed until he’s resting against the headboard, beckoning for Jordan to follow him. He sways on the spot, torn between wanting to stand and watch the spectacle and letting himself be touched, but he’s never been able to stay away from Virgil for too long so he crawls across the mattress and settles in the space between his thighs.

“Tell me if you’re not comfortable with anything,” Virgil whispers, curving his palm around Jordan’s cheek. His voice is so sweet, eyebrows knitted with concern, and it makes Jordan want to cry. All of this, all of it – and Virgil is _still_ checking, double, triple checking, that Jordan is okay. That he still wants this. “ _Anything_. And I’ll stop. I don’t want you to –”

“I won’t,” Jordan says quickly, because he knows undoubtedly that he won’t. He won’t feel uncomfortable. He won’t hate this. He won’t resent Virgil. He will not want this to stop, because he’s never wanted anything more in his life, and he’s finally getting it. It’s like – his biggest dream. His biggest fantasy is finally happening, and he couldn’t stop it even if he tried. He doesn’t think he could physically get the words out. “I want this. I want you.”

“Good,” Virgil says. A beautiful little smile graces his face but then it disappears as he flips Jordan over so he’s trapped underneath Virgil’s body, replaced with something dangerous. He grins, teeth bared and eyes dark, and presses his hips against Jordan’s. The heat between his legs is so fucking inviting that Jordan can’t help but roll back into it, desperately chasing more. “Somebody’s needy.” 

The teasing tone drips off his words like honey, thick and sultry. It makes Jordan flush bright red, like he’s been caught out, but they both know. By now, they both know, and there’s no way they can ignore it. It’s a landing strip, lighting up the path to Jordan’s mouth, to the flush of his chest, to that look in his eye. To the outline of his cock in his jeans, begging, _please, please – this is my turn now_. He’s waited so long. He’s finally getting this, and he knows he deserves it. Selfish, selfish, but he never claimed to be anything better. Maybe his mother was right all along. 

He takes it when Virgil pushes forward and kisses him, tongue fucking into his mouth harshly. He’s trapped with no way out, but that’s what he wants. He doesn’t want a reason to say no. He doesn’t want to give Virgil a reason to say no, so he just curls his hand around the back of Virgil’s neck to try and stay grounded. He’s holding on for dear life as the taste of Virgil’s mouth and the taste of his own become indistinguishable. They’re the same thing, now – the same person. Two souls, one body. That’s what it’s always felt like, but this is just. _Tenfold_. Jordan doesn’t know where he begins and Virgil ends, and that’s just the way he likes it.

“Wanted this for so long,” Virgil breathes, mouth skimming from Jordan’s lips to his jaw, and then down to his neck. He works patches of skin between his teeth, right over the thick vein there, like he just knows it’s going to drive Jordan crazy. He’s right, because Jordan gasps, fingernails digging into the back of Virgil’s neck. “God, Jord – _so long_. It’s all I think about sometimes.”

But Jordan knows how these things work out. A smile is just a smile, and by using that logic, you'd say that a fuck is just a fuck. Something you need when the person you love is thousands of miles away, Jordan assumes. He wouldn't know, of course, because the only person he's ever loved is in this bed right here, with his hands on Jordan's hips and his mouth on Jordan's throat.

It hurts to think about, the kind of pain that claws out of your lungs and into your mouth. The kind that burns at the back of your eyeballs, all the time, even when you try to think about something, _anything_ else. That pain, that awful pressure. Jordan is far too used to it, though. He’s worked out how to carry on and keep it hidden by now.

But – that’s for afterwards. He’s going to cross that bridge when he gets to it, because selfish selfish selfishly he _has_ Virgil, and that’s all he’s ever wished for when the clock has struck 11:11. All those wishes come true when Virgil pops the button on his jeans open and slides the zip down torturously slowly, still leaving kisses along Jordan’s throat – although they are much softer now. 

Virgil shimmies his jeans down his thighs carefully, finally pulling away from his neck to concentrate on what he’s doing. He’s so delicate, palm smoothing over the soft skin of Jordan’s thighs and taking the time to manoeuvre the jeans over his feet. The sight of it is just unbelievable: he’s kind and considerate and so fucking sexy all at the same time. He is perfect, and it’s really fucking cruel that he isn’t Jordan’s.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, sitting back on his heels. He trails his gaze down Jordan’s body, eyes catching at the dark, wet spot at the front of his boxers where his dick has been leaking for a while now. He’s torn between begging to be touched and seeing if he can get off from watching that look on Virgil’s face alone, but the decision is taken out of his hands when Virgil traces the outline of his cock with his thumb and index finger, and then slides his boxers down his legs like he’s tired of waiting.

“I’m peachy,” Jordan whispers, although it’s slurred and frankly, a little bit ridiculous. He barely knows what he’s saying right now, too caught up in Virgil and the darkness of his eyes, the shine on his bottom lip.

He’s completely, entirely naked now. There’s nothing hiding him from Virgil anymore, dick resting against his stomach and making the dusky hairs there wet. His thighs are trembling and his chest is flushed, and his fingers twitch with the urge to touch. To touch anything – Virgil, his own dick, _anything_. He’s desperate for any sensation he can get.

Virgil is still fully clothed. He’s a mess; his t-shirt is rucked up a little bit, creased around the chest, and his dick is straining gorgeously against his jeans, but he’s still completely and fully clothed. It feels obscene, knowing that Virgil can see him while he can’t see any of Virgil. Obscene and not fair, but he loves how exposed it makes him. He loves being the centre of Virgil’s attention. He wants to be the only thing Virgil ever looks at for the rest of his life. 

It’s almost painful when Virgil looks away. He doesn’t go very far, only to reach over to Jordan’s bedside table, opening the top drawer and digging around for a moment until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a bottle of lube (that Jordan has used, like, once), and a condom that he’s surprised is still in date, and tosses them triumphantly on the bed next to Jordan’s thigh.

“You ready?” Virgil asks, fingers brushing under Jordan’s chin to get him to look up. The expression on his face is kind – it’s a bit of an oxymoron, because his eyes are still inky black and his mouth is still bitten red and he still looks like he’s going to consume Jordan – but the look on his face… Jordan has never had more trust in anyone in his entire life.

“Yes,” Jordan breathes, rolling his bottom lip into his mouth. All the oxygen is snatched from his lungs when he hears the cap on the bottom flick open, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks he could come from the just sound of Virgil’s slickening his fingers, so he doesn’t know if he’d be able to hold back if he saw it, too. “Please. Yes, please.” 

Virgil makes a noise in the base of his throat, disbelieving and something else that Jordan would describe as turned on out of his mind. He’s looking at Jordan like he hung the stars and the moon and all of the planets, cheeks red and eyelashes dragging low against his cheeks, and Jordan is expecting it when Virgil pushes forward and kisses him.

It feels like every kiss so far has been different. Heated, slow, soft. Harsh, deep, unforgiving. Sweet. Rough. A give and a take. He wonders if it’s always like that with Virgil, but hates the fact he’ll probably never get to find out, and then the thought is out of his mind completely when he feels the tip of Virgil’s index finger pressing cold against his hole, rubbing slightly as he gets a hand around the back of Jordan’s head. 

He doesn’t give a warning when he pushes his finger in to the knuckle, and he doesn’t let Jordan pull away either. He swallows every little gasp, every little moan, and smiles into the kiss as he starts to move his hand carefully. It’s been a while since Jordan’s had anyone bearing down on him like this (longer than he cares to admit), but Virgil seems to understand that, because he takes his time.

It doesn’t hurt, not really. It feels a little bit tight (although Virgil’s fingers are long and thick, and jesus, Jordan’s had enough daydreams about them to at least have a slight idea of what it’d feel like) but there's no pain – until Virgil slides in a second finger along with the first, and the stinging starts. He hisses a little bit on instinct and Virgil pulls away from the kiss to place a careful hand on his cheek, brushing his hair out of his face carefully.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, completely and entirely soothing. He drops a chaste little peck to the corner of Jordan’s mouth and then starts to move his fingers, scissoring them slowly. He’s watching every little movement on Jordan’s face, every flash in his eyes, to check that he’s okay. “Just relax, babe. Breathe through it, yeah? It’ll be worth it.” 

“Sorry, it’s just ––” Jordan manages to get out, although his teeth are gritted and he’s clinging on to Virgil’s shoulders. “It’s –– been a while.” 

“I know, you don’t need to apologise to me,” Virgil murmurs, nose brushing intently against Jordan’s. He fits his mouth against Jordan’s at the same time as he pushes a third finger in and his tongue stifles the cry that the older man lets out, because this time it properly burns. It’s starting to melt into pleasure now, sparks of it travelling up his spine, but the good isn’t quite outweighing the bad just yet. Virgil shifts onto his knees, plants his hand on the pillow next to Jordan’s head, and when he speaks again, his voice is strict. “Tell me if this gets too much.”

Jordan is about to ask _if what gets too much_ but then Virgil hooks the tips of his fingers and he finds Jordan’s prostate, pressing against it harshly and doesn’t back down. This time, it’s all pleasure, and he cries out, head thrown back against the pillow and fist shoved into his mouth just to try and contain the volume. He’d rather his neighbours didn’t hate him (again).

“That feel good? Yeah?” Virgil asks, voice breathy like he can’t quite contain his excitement. His gaze is burning hot on Jordan’s skin and he doesn’t move again until Jordan nods. Only then does he press a rewarding kiss to Jordan’s cheek, and scissors his fingers again. “God, I’ve thought about this for so long. Spreading you across a bed and stretching you open, watching your face while I do it. Doesn’t even have to be a bed – on my lap. On the floor. In the shower. Feel like it’s all I’ve thought about.” 

His fingers press firmly against Jordan’s prostate again and that, combined with his words, make his dick twitch against his stomach. Virgil grins at the sight and his own cock throbs hotly even through his jeans against the inside of Jordan’s thigh. He’s so hard it must hurt, but he’s barely even thought about himself.

“Always pictured you in so much detail. The sounds you’d make, the breathy little moans you’d let out. What they’d taste like on my tongue. The way your chest flushes red and your nipples hardening, and the sound of my name when you cry it out because I bit down on them,” Virgil says. He pauses to do exactly that, closing his mouth around it sharply and then rolling it between his teeth. Jordan can’t help but let out a broken moan that’s half Virgil’s name and half incomprehensible, but it seems to be enough for Virgil, because he licks over the spot he just bit soothingly. “Thought about it so many times, Jordan. When I was alone and had a hand around my dick – that’s what gets me off. Every time, I get off on the thought of you. Always have. Took me too long to realise why.”

Jordan can barely process what he’s saying by now. The movement of his fingers, brushing against his prostate and stretching him open combined with every single obscene word he speaks is far too much, and there’s tears on his cheeks and his chest feels cracked open and he’s just gone, desperate to come but nobody is touching him. He tries to get a hand between their bodies but Virgil stops him with fingers around his wrist, grinding harshly against the bone. 

“Jordan,” Virgil says firmly, but his voice sounds hazy and his face looks out of focus. Jordan tries to blink through it, tries to breathe, but every inhale is choked on a sob. He’s had plenty of sex before but none of it has ever made him feel like this – wrecked, like he’s been taken apart and put back together again in an entirely new order. “Are you with me? Come on, breathe with me, J. That’s it, deep breaths. Are you here?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m here, _fuck_ ,” he gasps out, curling his arms around Virgil’s shoulders. He nearly loses it again when he hears Virgil’s whispers of _good boy_ , but the younger man’s mouth on his manages to keep him together, and he grinds back desperately on Virgil’s hand. He doesn’t get any teasing comments like he did earlier – they’re both far too gone for that now. “God, take your fucking clothes off.” 

Virgil laughs, sweet and dangerous, but he does what he’s told. He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets (Jordan isn’t sleeping in that spot tonight) and then wrestles his t-shirt over his head, hopping off the bed to peel his jeans off as well. He’s too impatient, trying to kick them off before they’re even over his knees, and Jordan can’t help but smile at the sight. 

There’s a reason he’s crazy in love with Virgil, and it’s because he’s the kindest, dorkiest, most endearing man he’s ever met.

The younger man notices Jordan grinning at him and rolls his eyes fondly, blushing bright red with embarrassment. He manages to get his jeans off though, and somehow doesn’t fall over in the process. The light mood drops when Jordan’s stare drags down his body and pauses on the outline of his dick in his boxers, the wet spot at the front, and just – the sheer _size_ of it. Jordan’s noticed before, obviously, because how could he not, but he’s never seen it like this. Never felt the anticipation, the desperate longing. Never known what it feels like to watch Virgil slowly push his boxers over his hips, making a performance of himself, and see him wrap a hand around his own cock with a smirk on his face.

Jordan is completely fucking desperate for it.

Virgil strokes himself a few times like he’s trying to take the edge off and then climbs back on the bed, settling down in the space between Jordan’s thighs. He hovers over him, resting his weight on his forearms and smiling, before nudging his nose against Jordan’s and then kissing him softly. 

It’s different now, all of it – skin on skin, the coarse hairs on Virgil’s legs brushing against the sensitive skin of the inside of Jordan’s thighs. His dick sliding against the crease of Jordan’s hip every time he rocks forward, chasing the friction. His chest, lovely and smooth, brushing against Jordan’s, the hard bud of his nipples grazing across the warmth there teasingly. It’s different and it’s hot and it’s anticipation, that’s what it is, building slowly and steadily. It’s all going to explode like fireworks when Jordan has Virgil where he wants him.

Which is –– not here. He gets a hand up between them and splayed on Virgil’s chest, using as much force as he can muster to push him away. Only slightly, only far enough that he can see Virgil’s face instead of an out of focus blur. He can still feel Virgil’s heavy breaths on his skin and he can still feel the warmth of his cheeks, but it’s not where he wants him.

Instead, he flips them over until Virgil is the one with his back against the mattress. Jordan straddles his hips and grins at the shocked look on Virgil’s face. Well, it’s less shocked and more turned on, really, especially when he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and curls his fingers tight around Jordan’s hips. He smiles like the cat that got the cream and slides one hand up the length of the older man’s back to pull him down for a kiss. 

Jordan sighs into the kiss, content and blissfully happy. He’d stay here forever if he was allowed, if that’s what he and Virgil were about. He’s trying not to think about the fact that this time tomorrow it’ll be like none of it ever happened and Virgil’s number won’t be in his phone anymore, and there’s still a part of him that wants to stop it all, salvage whatever he can, but he can feel Virgil’s dick pressing firmly against his thigh and he knows the taste of his mouth like the back of his hand. There is absolutely nothing to salvage anymore. 

“Get on with it, then,” Jordan grumbles, pulling away only millimetres so he can speak against Virgil’s lips. He’s getting impatient now because his hard dick is getting painful. As soon as Virgil’s mouth touched his for the first time back in the living room (which seems like hours ago. It could be minutes or days. Jordan would have no idea), all the blood in his body rushed south. He’s been waiting for this since the very first kiss. 

“Needy boy,” Virgil mocks, stretching up to steal one last nipping kiss. He feels around in the sheets next to him until he finds the condom he dropped there earlier and waves it in front of Jordan’s face like it’s some kind of prize. It doesn’t feel like that, though. Jordan grabs his wrist before he can tear the packet open, although he’s not quite sure what to say. Virgil just looks confused. “What?”

“Don’t – don’t use it,” Jordan says quietly, feeling his cheeks flush with shame. The look on Virgil’s face changes, speeds through several different emotions in a matter of seconds before settling on a mix of uncertainty, concern, and pity. “I don’t want you to use it. I want to feel you, Virgil.”

“Jord,” Virgil breathes, shifting until he’s almost sitting up. He’s resting his weight on one elbow, other hand curling around Jordan’s cheek so that he can’t look away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, because they’re so close now that their noses are bumping. “Are you sure? This is a big thing. Please don’t say that just because you think it’s what I want – I know how you feel about it. I remember what happened.” 

Jordan shakes his head, watches the shiver travel up Virgil’s spine when he feels the older man’s hair on his skin. “It’s nothing to do with that. You and that – it’s nothing alike,” Jordan whispers. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Virgil’s mouth because they’re so close that he can’t resist. Just because he can. “I want to make the most of this. I want to know what you feel like when you’re inside me, without an extra layer blurring the memory. I want you and me, with nothing between us. Just us, Virgil. The way it’s always been. Nothing keeping us apart. Don’t you want that too?” 

Virgil blinks and all of a sudden his eyes are wet, eyelashes clumping together as his cheeks grow a sweet shade of pink. He nods, wordless, like he daren’t speak because he’s so choked up with emotion, and then throws the condom in the general direction of the bedside table. He picks up the lube this time and slicks his dick up, worrying on his bottom lip like having a hand on himself is too much. 

Neither of them want this over too soon, but Jordan feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get Virgil inside him now.

He lowers himself slowly onto Virgil’s dick, letting out stuttering little gasps as he feels the burn. Virgil’s hands are tight on his hips, pressing hard enough to leave identical bruises, but it’s perfect. So, so perfect, and when he bottoms out he’s so full that he feels restless, shifting impatiently. Virgil isn’t letting him move yet because even now he’s considerate, making sure that Jordan isn’t going to risk hurting himself. Instead, he frees one of his hands to tangle his fingers with Jordan’s and presses kisses to his knuckles, looking up at him with burning hot eyes.

“You’re so tight,” he whispers, not moving his gaze from Jordan’s face as the older man traces the tips of his fingers over Virgil’s bottom lip. His other hand slides down his thigh, ruffling through the dusky hairs there before pushing against the muscle with the heel of his palm. Jordan takes that as a sign he’s allowed to move. 

He steadies himself with a palm planted flat in the middle of Virgil’s chest and then lifts himself up so much that only the head of Virgil’s dick is still inside him. He pauses like that, even though it makes his thighs burn, and then slams back down just to hear the high pitched whine that tears from Virgil’s throat. The angle isn’t quite right so he moves, leans forward slightly and fists his hand in the sheets next to Virgil’s head instead.

That does it. He grinds his hips down and Virgil’s dick hits his prostate dead on, right what he was looking for. It feels incredible and he makes a noise that he’s never heard coming from his own mouth before. He can’t bring himself to question it, because he can feel Virgil’s dick twitch inside him because of it, and the younger man is whispering quiet little curses about how gorgeous he sounds. 

The next time he bears back down, Virgil thrusts upwards to meet his hips. He slides impossibly deeper and it’s almost unbearable now, and god knows how Jordan is supposed to survive this, _god fucking knows_ , because it’s barely even started. At this rate, it’s not going to last long, so he chases his pleasure and sets up a steady rhythm, letting out breathy little moans every time Virgil hits his prostate. 

“God, Jordan, _yes_ ,” Virgil slurs, one hand wrapped around Jordan’s thigh and the other around the back of his neck. He pulls him down roughly for a kiss but it’s less of a kiss and more breathing into each other’s mouths, lips sliding to the side and breaking away to gasp every so often. It’s still perfect though, still the best sex that Jordan has ever had, because all that’s running through his mind is _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_. It’s probably awful, but he’s never actually had sex with somebody he cares about before. This feeling is unparalleled. “You’re so – fuck, you’re perfect, you’re incredible.”

Jordan laughs breathlessly and thinks, _I could say the same about you_. He doesn’t have the chance to say it out loud because Virgil is flipping them over, somehow without pulling out, and pushing Jordan back against the pillows. He grins as if to say, _two can play at that game_ , but Jordan doesn’t take the bait. He just surges up and kisses Virgil before he can start moving again.

When he does start moving, his thrusts are more forceful than before. Sharper and deeper. Unforgiving, and the angle is even better when Jordan wraps a leg around his back, knee riding high against his ribs. Virgil kisses him again, hot and wet and messy, and then gets a hand between their bodies and curls his fingers around Jordan’s dick.

The touch is unbelievable. Jordan’s never felt anything like this before – Virgil’s callouses catch against the thick vein that runs on the underside of his dick and his thumb swipes over the head with intent. He lets out a sharp little noise, high pitched and drawn out, and watches the way Virgil's eyes go even darker. 

"God, you're beautiful," Virgil breathes, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Jordan's mouth. He pumps his fist in firm, steady strokes like he's trying his hardest to drive Jordan crazy, and honestly, it's working. He feels restless, feverish, so desperate to come that it hurts. He's just waiting for Virgil to say the magic words. "Never seen anything like you right now. Never felt anything like this."

Jordan laughs, breathless, but it’s cut off and replaced by a moan when Virgil twists his wrist. He gets a hand around the back of Virgil’s head and pulls him down for a kiss, fingers tangling in his thick curls, and his back arches in a desperate need to get closer.

“Please,” he gasps, mouth still pressed against Virgil’s. His hips buck up into Virgil’s fist and the younger man takes the hint, speeding up the rhythm of his thrusts again. They’re more erratic now, hips snapping hard and fast, and the pumping of his fist doesn’t match. “Please – _god_ – I need to come, Virg. _Please_.”

“You can come, baby,” Virgil whispers, mouth close to Jordan’s ear. His voice is so incredibly soft, so sweet, that Jordan feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He digs his fingernails into the soft skin on Virgil’s shoulder blade and holds on for dear life. If he had it his way, he’d never let go. “You can come. Come for me, Jordan.”

That’s all it takes. Virgil’s voice in his ear and his hand on his dick and the smell of him, his presence, everywhere, overwhelming Jordan’s senses and turning him into Virgil’s property. He comes, waves of it from the soles of his feet right to his scalp, making his skin shiver, and he can feel his cock pulsing in Virgil’s fist as his vision blanks out. White, closing over the sight of Virgil’s face, until there’s nothing and his head is thrown back against the pillow.

He can’t see, but he can still feel. Virgil’s hips freeze and he tucks his face into Jordan’s neck, somehow managing to find his hand and tangling their fingers together. He comes, makes gorgeous little noises that Jordan promises to remember for the rest of his life, and his muscles are trembling. He’s as come undone as Jordan has ever seen him in all the years he’s known him, and it might just be the eighth wonder of the world.

He’d forgotten how this feels. Like Virgil coming inside him has marked him, and now he’ll never be anyone else's.

Virgil doesn’t move for a while. He stays nestled between Jordan’s legs with his face pressed right up against Jordan’s skin, breathing hot and warm there. He reacts, only slightly, when Jordan combs a soothing hand through his hair – just presses a sweet little kiss to his collarbone, nose nudging against the hollow of his throat. The tears that have been threatening at the corner of Jordan’s eyes finally spill over his cheeks, but he wipes them away before Virgil can notice.

This is his heaven.

“Jesus,” Virgil whispers eventually, pulling away from Jordan. He doesn’t go too far, just a few centimetres so he can drop kisses all over Jordan’s cheek, his nose, his forehead, and then finally, his mouth. Jordan can’t help but smile, kissing back sleepily. “Should’ve done that a long time ago.” 

Jordan makes a non-committal noise. He can’t agree, because honestly, the regret is starting to seep in already. Not about the sex – that in itself was absolutely incredible, and the intimacy still has him shaken to the core – but the fact that he’s lost his best friend. He’s had fourteen years with Virgil, but they still weren’t enough. Any sooner, and he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to come back from it.

Virgil presses one last kiss to Jordan’s jaw and then pulls out slowly. Jordan can’t help but let out a slutty little moan, biting his lip at how awfully empty he feels, and his cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed, because Virgil has just seen him in his rawest form, but honestly. He’s mortified, but the heat on his skin fades when Virgil kisses him like he can’t help himself, smirking into it. 

“Stay there,” Virgil whispers, like he doesn’t realise Jordan’s knees are made of jelly and he couldn’t stand even if he tries. He smooths his hand down Jordan’s hip and pecks his lips once, twice, three times, before finally rolling off the bed and disappearing into the hallway. Jordan watches his body as he walks away, the smooth, long lines of his back and the lovely curve of his arse. He could be a model, and yet here he is in Jordan’s bed.

When he comes back, he’s holding a washcloth, and he settles on his knees in between Jordan’s legs again. He smiles, incredibly beautiful, and places a warm palm on Jordan’s knee. He cleans him up carefully, a frown of concentration on his face, and Jordan can’t help but feel his breath catch in his chest at the sight. 

“Leave it,” Jordan whispers when Virgil is done, catching his wrist before he can leave the room again. Virgil cocks his head slightly, watching Jordan’s face like he’s looking for something, but then he smiles and just dumps the cloth on the floor, settling back in bed. He holds his arm out expectantly and Jordan rolls into his side, pillowing his head on his chest and relaxing when Virgil curls his fingers tight around Jordan’s waist. 

His skin is warm and the steady beat of his heart is so soothing that Jordan’s eyes feel heavy. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to stay awake, make sure that this is never, ever over. If he goes to sleep, that means tomorrow will come, and that ends his friendship with Virgil. All of it, finished, like it never even happened. All he’s left with is a few photos and a handful of memories that hurt to look back on, and maybe a t-shirt of Virgil’s, if he can steal it before he moves out again. 

“I don’t want this to end,” Jordan whispers, hating the lump that’s choking his throat and the burning at the back of his eyes. He’s had the best evening of his life and now he’s fucking crying. God knows he can’t do anything right.

“It doesn’t have to end if you don’t want it to,” Virgil murmurs, carding his fingers through Jordan’s hair. He tangles the fingers of his other hand with Jordan’s that’s resting on his chest, and brings it up so his mouth so he can kiss his knuckles. “This never has to end, Jord. This can be forever if you want it to be.”

Jordan knows that he’s lying to be kind, but he doesn’t have it in himself to argue. His heart hurts and he feels sick, and the only thing that’s holding him together is the warmth of Virgil’s skin. He slings his leg over Virgil’s thighs like he’s trying to keep him there, but he knows it’s not going to work. 

These next few hours are all that he has left.

He watches the lines of Virgil’s face, memorises them. Burns the way he looks after sex into his mind, so that it’s all he sees when he closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that but eventually Virgil falls asleep, peaceful and quiet, and his eyes start to burn. He’s determined to stay awake, because he can’t waste a second of it. He would never, ever forgive himself if he did.

.

Jordan startles awake. He doesn’t know what caused it but he’s grateful to see that Virgil is still curled up next to him, arm around his waist and fingers tight on his stomach. His skin is warm and the pattern of his breathing is steady, and he’s real. It’s real. Last night actually happened.

Last night actually happened but that means today has to happen, too. 

He decides that it’ll be easier if he’s not here while Virgil is packing. It’s bad enough knowing that Virgil is going to leave, but being here while it happens –– it would break him. Shatter him into a million tiny little pieces, and he wouldn’t be able to put himself back together again. He wouldn’t survive it, and he knows it.

So he has to leave. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go – anywhere but here. Anywhere he doesn’t have to look at the regret shining in Virgil’s eyes, anywhere he doesn’t have to hear him saying it was a mistake. He knows all that, and it makes him feel nauseous every time he breathes. At least if he’s somewhere else, a mile or two away, he can pretend it isn’t happening. When he comes back, he can just pretend it never happened in the first place.

A fresh start. A clean slate. 

Still, he takes an extra few minutes to stay in bed. Turns onto his side so he can study the lines of Virgil’s face properly. He’s seen it before, of course, but this is the first time it’s been this close. This _intimate_. Virgil is still completely unaware of the thoughts running through Jordan’s mind and he slides a thigh in between the older man’s legs, pulling him in close. His face is buried in Jordan’s chest, lips pressed right over his heart, and he wraps both arms tight around Jordan’s body. 

He swallows the thick lump that’s rising in his throat and tangles his fingers in Virgil’s hair. It’s a moment of weakness but one that he’s letting himself have, because he doesn’t have much else. He can cling onto this when he’s struggling to get through the days without Virgil, so he squeezes his fist tight just to listen to the little noise that the younger man lets out. 

He presses his lips to Virgil’s forehead, touch lingering because he can’t bring himself to pull away. This is the only goodbye he’s letting himself have, so he traces his fingertips along Virgil’s cheekbones for a second just to drag it out even further. But then he realises that if he lets it go on anymore, he will never be able to leave, so with shaking hands, he untangles his body from Virgil’s and climbs out of bed. 

All their clothes are still strewn around the floor but Jordan can’t even bring himself to look at them, let alone put them back on. Yesterday, he got dressed with the intent of looking nice for Virgil. He did it because it was what he asked, but he never expected it to lead to _that_ , and now, every time he looks at that shirt – well, it’ll just remind him of everything he lost.

He opens his drawers as quietly as he can, pulling out socks, underwear, and joggers, clutching them to his chest. He does pick up Virgil’s t-shirt, though (the only reminder he’s allowing), because it’s black and plain and inconspicuous enough that he could pass it off as a mistake if he’s called out on it. 

The feeling of being exposed is the worst part. Virgil has seen his body millions of times, has just spent hours exploring it with his hands and his mouth – not to mention the fact he’s asleep and not even looking – but Jordan still feels completely and entirely exposed. He tries to cover his body as much as he can with the clothes that are in his hands and slides out of the bedroom, leaving Virgil to sleep peacefully. Closes the door behind him as quietly as possible, and only then does he dare to breathe.

His heart is breaking. He can feel it, deep in his chest, cracking and splitting open like an old rotten piece of wood. Fragments of it everywhere, filling up his lungs until it’s hard to breathe. Embedding themselves in his stomach lining until the acid burns right through and sets his whole body on fire. He’s had his heart broken before, by his mum and his dad and even by Virgil himself, but none of those times have ever felt anything like this.

This feels like a physical thing that could really, properly kill him. Hospitalise him, at least, and maybe it’d be easier that way.

But this is just something he has to deal with. He gets dressed in the bathroom and only pauses by the front door to put his running trainers on, lacing them up quick and messy in case Virgil decides now is the right time to wake up. He’d rather avoid any awkward encounters. Like –– when someone dies in bad circumstances, and you’re told to remember them as they were instead of how they died. That’s how it feels: he’s got to remember the good times, and not when Virgil (hypothetically) looks him in the eyes and tells him he hates him.

The fresh air outside his flat doesn’t help him breathe any easier. It actually makes it worse, because now he’s not surrounded by the familiar, comforting scent of Virgil’s aftershave. The air is too clean and it smells like nothing and it’s just – inoffensive. Nothing to write home about. Nondescript and boring.

Jordan swears that sometimes, it’s like his brain _wants_ him to get hurt.

He starts running because it’s the only thing he can think of. An intrinsic reaction, fight or flight, and this is something he can’t fight against. He runs, feet pounding against the pavement, until there’s sweat dripping down his forehead and his mind is finally blank. It’s unseasonably cold, windy and rainy, and his cheeks are burning from the low temperature, but he keeps going. Stares ahead and clenches his fists, dodging the few people that are walking around without even an apology.

If he stops and thinks, he’s going to break down. If he stops, then he’ll picture Virgil, fast asleep in his bed and none the wiser. He’ll picture all the things that could have been, all the birthdays and Christmases and every other holiday, with Virgil by his side, clasping his hand proudly, and maybe even a _family_ ––––

He turns down a side alley and comes to a halt, gasping for breath. Tears are blurring his vision and he can’t even see to carry on now, so he rests his back against the wall and tries to swallow them down. Presses a hand over his mouth because bile is rising from his stomach, and then when he finally feels okay and he can see again, he punches the wall until his knuckles bleed.

It’s not like – he didn’t _mean_ to do it. His head is fucked and his heart is worse and all he can think about is making it _stop_. All of it, he wants it all to stop, and besides, the wall _asked_ for it.

He’s already regretting it. His knuckles ache and they’re split open, and it’s his own fault. That’s the worst part – he knows that it’s all his fault.

He keeps moving because he realises that if he stands still, he’ll just turn around and go straight back home. He wants to go and see Virgil and beg him to stay and ask if they can just forget about it, but that would be pathetic. He would be on his knees and Virgil would just turn around. He’d walk away. He’d disregard Jordan completely, and that would hurt even more.

A part of him wishes he’d thought to bring his headphones, but the other is glad for the silence. He’s still running, lungs burning and muscles aching, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. He hasn’t thought about it once, just turns left or right and sometimes, doubles back on himself. The sun was barely up when he started but now it’s stretching high into the sky, bleak and pale in the bitter wind. 

At least the weather matches how he’s feeling.

He thinks that it’s almost ironic when it starts raining. Big, heavy droplets that hurt when they smack against his skin, that soak him to the bone within seconds. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his feet are squelching in his trainers and his joggers are stuck to his thighs, but the only thing he can think is:

_Virgil will be so pissed off that he fell asleep with his hair down_.

He pushes the thought out of his head, focusing almost aggressively on something, _anything_ else. The current storylines on Coronation Street. The last album that Two Door Cinema Club put out. What his new clients will be like, the ones that he has a meeting with on Monday. The things they’ll want from him, if they’ll be fussy.

Where is he going to work when he’s not at the office? He can’t go to the cafe on his day off and set up shop in there for the next few hours. He can’t get free drinks to keep him going and he can’t eat Virgil’s famous pasta for lunch. Not this week, not next week, not ever again.

He feels like his whole life has been flipped upside down, and he doesn’t know how to turn it right again.  
He doesn’t realise where he’s ended up until he finally stops running. And – it’s not even his choice that he stops, because his legs just give up on him. Completely and totally give up, muscles burning and bones grinding, and he falls to the floor heavily. The knees of his joggers are damp and there’s mud splashes up his arms from where his hands broke his fall, but he can’t even bring himself to care. He stays on his hands and knees and stares at the ground, trying desperately to get oxygen into his lungs. Thankfully, there’s nobody around to see him in this state.

The position is starting to make his back hurt so he falls to the side, landing on his bum so heavily that his spine hurts even more, but he can barely feel it through the cold. The wind is even stronger up here, and even though the rain has cleared up, the view over the cliffs is obscured by thick fog. 

The cliffs. Even when he’s not thinking about it, his brain is taking him to places he associates with Virgil. 

Virgil. Virgil. Virgil. All these places that remind Jordan of him, and all for what? Nothing. He'll be left with nothing but the ghost of a touch, a hug, a laugh. Eventually, he won’t even be able to remember the exact pitch of Virgil’s voice or the pattern of the freckles that scatter across his nose when the sun hits his skin. That’s what hurts the most – the fact that he’ll walk past something stupid like a bench they once sat on, and all he’ll remember is an out of focus version of Virgil’s face, and all the details will be wrong.

And _god_ it hurts. So much that Jordan’s chest feels tight, and he clutches it, trying to ignore the tears that are pricking at the corners of his eyes. He can’t swallow around the lump in his throat and he can’t breathe because his lungs are on fire, and the worst thing is that he’s lost Virgil. Forever.

It’s starting to sink in now.

This time, he doesn’t try to stop the tears. He lets himself cry, big ugly sobs that wrack through his body painfully, shoulders shaking and nausea rolling through his stomach like waves. He’s not cried like this for a long time – maybe not ever. He’s never quite felt pain like this, so. He has nothing else to compare it to.

For the first time since it happened, he regrets it. That’s it, plain and simple: he regrets having sex with Virgil. If he’d have just had the courage, the _guts_ , to push him away when he first kissed Jordan, they wouldn’t be in this position now. If he’d have thought about what he was doing and what it’d do to Stella for more than ten seconds, he’d still have his best friend by his side. If he hadn’t have been so fucking _weak_ , if he hadn’t have given in, he’d be able to breathe and he’d probably be doing something menial, like eating breakfast that Virgil cooked him.

Instead, he’s here, crying his heart out for someone who probably won’t even think twice about him from now on. That thought hurts too, like a dagger deep in his chest, and he wipes his eyes roughly because it’s true. And if it’s true, why is he crying for someone who doesn’t give a fuck about him?

He needs to get up and move on. Be strong. Pretend to be strong. Stand on two feet and walk away from this situation, make the best of the fact his life is in tatters around him.

He plants his hands firmly on the ground and takes a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet. The grass squelches underneath him but he grits his teeth and stands up straight, staring out over the cliffs with his hands curled into fists. Digs his fingernails into his palms and watches the sea crash into the rocks below him until his vision has cleared. The air is salty and stings at his cheeks, still hot and wet from his tears, but the pain just lets him know that he’s alive.

God knows he doesn’t feel it.

He’s not sure how long he stands there. Could be minutes, hours, days, and he wouldn’t know. The sun is hidden behind the grey clouds and the wind whips around his body, and his clothes are still soaking and his heart is still heavy, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and that’s what matters. That’s further than he ever thought he would be without Virgil.

“Jordan,” a voice says behind him. The wind takes a lot of the volume out, and Jordan isn’t quite sure if it’s real or if he made it up, because he knows that voice. He knows it like he knows his own. He would know Virgil’s voice anywhere. “Jordan, you must be freezing.”

Jordan doesn’t move. He’s crying again, fucking traitorous body, and he tries to dry them but his sleeves are wet anyway so it doesn’t work. This can’t be real, how can it be real? Virgil doesn’t care about him anymore. He isn’t supposed to care. This isn’t how it goes.

“Please talk to me, J,” Virgil says quietly. He sounds exhausted, and the grass crunches under his feet when he moves. He doesn’t come close enough for Jordan to feel his heat though, and Jordan is too scared to look. “I know I’ve fucked things up, but – I was twelve years old when I fell in love with you, Jordan Henderson, but I’m so thick that I didn’t realise what it was until my twenty sixth birthday.”

Those words stop him in his tracks and he turns his head slightly. He can only see Virgil out of his peripheral, sitting with his back against a tree that they claimed as theirs a long time ago. He looks as exhausted as he sounds. It makes Jordan’s heart hurt with sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. He knows Jordan well enough to realise that he probably won’t get a reply just yet. Jordan feels like if he opens his mouth, everything is just going to spill out and then he can’t take it back. He’s not ready for that yet. He still doesn’t believe Virgil’s words, not one bit. “I know I should have spoken to you about it before I just – jumped you, but god. Realising I was in love with you fucked with my head. I know that sounds awful, but I felt like I couldn’t trust myself. All these years, and I felt breathless when I looked at you. Jealous whenever I saw you with anyone else. Physically in pain when anyone would dare to hurt you. All these years, all these feelings, and I thought I just admired you. But my brain knew I was in love with you, and it didn’t care to catch me up.”

“How could you not tell?” Jordan asks quietly, turning around so he can face Virgil. The older man’s face lights up a little bit, looks hopeful. It shines in his eyes, in the redness of his cheeks.

“I don’t –– I don’t know,” Virgil says. The honesty in his voice is deafening, and he looks lost. Completely betrayed. Terrified, almost, but then he looks up at Jordan with determination in his eyes. “It scared me at first. But then I realised that what I felt about you wasn’t ever going away, and it gave me strength. It still does – it gives me strength. Being in love with you makes me feel like I’m on top of the world, and I am so, so sorry that I didn’t see it before. I must have put you through hell.” 

Jordan shrugs. It doesn’t matter now, because – Virgil loves him. Virgil van Dijk, Jordan’s best friend, is in love with him. He feels it too. He fucking feels it too, and Jordan’s heart pushes up into his throat, chokes him, makes him hurt.

He goes and sits next to Virgil because he needs the proximity, to feel the heat radiating from his skin. 

“I thought I’d ruined everything,” Jordan confesses, rubbing his sleeve across his nose. Virgil watches every tiny movement carefully, like he daren’t miss anything. At least he finally knows how Jordan’s felt for the past decade. “I felt like I should have stopped it. I knew it could only end one way – in tears. With me and you never speaking again. Because we were hurting people, weren’t we? We were-”

He cuts himself off, the thought of Stella front and centre.

“I told her not to come home,” Virgil says quickly, like he can read exactly what’s on Jordan’s mind. He shifts, and his shoulder brushes against Jordan’s, sending sparks right down to his toes. “I knew she wanted to stay out in Cambodia, and I told her not to come home. I think she understood. She didn’t fight it. We’re through, Jordan. Me and Stella are done.”

“You mean it?” Jordan asks. It comes out before he can stop it and he hates how small his voice sounds, hates how vulnerable it makes him feel. Virgil just smiles kindly and brushes a wet curl out of Jordan’s eyes. No teasing, no cruelty. He knows how much this means.

“I mean it,” he promises. Jordan doesn’t doubt it for a second. There’s a pause for a second where he just stares at Jordan, memorises all the details of his face, and then he presses the backs of his fingers against Jordan’s cheeks. They’re still hot and stinging from the tears. “You’ve been crying.”

“Had a bit of a shitty morning,” Jordan says, shrugging like it’s meant to be a joke. It _is_ meant to be a joke but it falls a bit flat and Virgil sighs, lines of his face going incredibly soft for a moment. Then he pulls Jordan in for a hug, tight and all encompassing, until all Jordan can do is tuck his face into Virgil’s neck and hold on for dear life. 

Over Virgil’s shoulder, he can see the trunk of the tree that they’re sitting against. A wise old oak that’s been stood in the same place for centuries. Solid, unmovable, steady. And in its bark, still, after almost a decade, are the letters that Virgil carved in one summer's day, when they were bored and had nothing to do.

_**V + J.** _

_**Forever.** _

God, Jordan hopes so.

“I’m so sorry,” Virgil whispers, pulling back far enough to curl a hand around Jordan’s cheek. He genuinely looks sorry, eyes endlessly sad and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Jordan hates that look on his face. He’s going to spend the rest of his life making sure he never has to see it again. “How long?”

“Do you want the real answer?” Jordan asks, not quite daring to meet Virgil’s eyes. _Too long_ , his head screams. _Not long enough_ , his heart shouts back. He agrees with both. “Or one that’ll make you feel less guilty?”

“Fuck,” Virgil breathes wetly, and then he pulls Jordan back in for a hug. His hand slides around to cup the back of his head and he holds it like it’s something delicate, something that he wants to take care of. It’s scary, because even though Jordan has been in love with him for a long time, he hasn’t let himself fall before. He doesn’t know how to let go. “I know it took me a while, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Virgil is the type of man who doesn’t go back on his promises. He keeps them, and even if it’s impossible he tries until the very last minute. He’s loyal. Honest. Jordan trusts him in every other aspect of life, and there’s no reason not to trust him now. So...

He lets go, because it’s the only thing he can do.

And he knows that Virgil will always be there to catch him.

“Take me home,” Jordan whispers, pulling out of the hug. He meets Virgil’s eye determinedly and holds out his hand, palm up, for Virgil to take if he wants to. If he wants Jordan. If he wants _forever_. “I want – will you take me home?” 

“Always,” Virgil says, swears, promises. He slides his palm against Jordan’s and slots their fingers together, holding on so tight that jordan can feel the callouses on the tips of his fingers pressing bruises onto the back of his hand. Virgil looks back just as determined, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, and when he speaks again, his voice is trembling slightly with a vulnerability that Jordan has never, ever seen on him. “I will always take you home, Jordan Henderson.”

**Author's Note:**

> i never leave end notes other than my blog, but now you've finished and hopefully enjoyed reading it, would you be interested in some more fics set in this universe? sequels that show their life afterwards, maybe even a fic or two from virgil's pov... because i would love to write them if you guys want them 👀
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/)


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